


Greens and Blues

by krrs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-15 20:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17536064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krrs/pseuds/krrs
Summary: Still he dreams in greens and blues. Of sand in his shoes and seawater soaking his pant legs so they wrap around his ankles. Of fading boardwalks and seagull songs. He dreams of chasing his friend around the beach, grabbing him by the fraying collar and wringing his salted, icy socks out down Steve’s back until he howls and shoves him away. Bucky dreams these things because he doesn’t remember. At least, not in a way that matters.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! This is part one of a stucky two shot I'm currently working on. It takes places in between CACW and AIW and is angst with fluff and a happy ending. If you see any spelling/grammar mistakes please let me know, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (I hope to have part two up by the end of the month!)

January

Still he dreams in greens and blues. Of sand in his shoes and seawater soaking his pant legs so they wrap around his ankles. Of fading boardwalks and seagull songs. He dreams of chasing his friend around the beach, grabbing him by the fraying collar and wringing his salted, icy socks out down Steve’s back until he howls and shoves him away. Bucky dreams these things because he doesn’t remember. At least, not in a way that matters.

These images coagulate like geometry. All angles and points like broken beer bottles on the beach. They recede and crash like the tide in swirling pigments of navy, turquoise, seafoam, and sage. Watercolors soaking through newspaper. He makes clumsy connections. Bucky can’t feel the black and white nostalgia for the headlines or remember what shriveling sea-soaked toes feel like on the sand. He can’t recall what a real, deep, true laugh feels like, stumbling back to a shared apartment. He just watches it like a movie, and his heart aches for the almost of it all. 

Bucky pieces what he can together until it satisfies Steve. New Steve. The Steve he hasn’t known for seventy years. Sometimes he catches glimpses of the Old Steve and it makes him feel like the Old Bucky. Steve’s timeline is different than his, though. Bucky was young and happy and naive and dumb while Steve was young and smart and brave and angry. Then they were changed; Steve became something great and Bucky became something horrible. He mourns for them both. Old Bucky was just a kid, Old Steve was just a kid. 

“We were just kids.” He says to Steve. To a picture of him anyway. Tucked in a notebook. Stacked on his bookshelf. “God, what happened to us?” He knows Steve won’t answer. “We lived a whole century but we’re still just kids.” He punctuates the last couple words with knuckle knocks on his wooden dinner table. Bucky’s voice sounds far away even to himself. And tinny, like it’s coming from a radio signal. He sighs and gets up, dumping his plate in the sink and then goes to bed somber and sorry.

He wakes to the brilliant Wakandan sunrise. He watches it every single morning with a coffee mug in hand and drinks in the orange light. So different from the pigeon blue dusks he dreams about. Bucky’s fingers clink as he taps on his mug. For the past few days he’s thought about calling Steve.

But what is Steve going to do? What can Steve do? Bucky asks himself, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Is he going to say some magic words and suddenly Bucky will remember it all? He asks, opening his contacts. Is he going to undo the mess the Winter Soldier has made? Aren’t best friends supposed to make you feel better? What can Steve do? And Bucky is holding the phone to his ear, standing by his window, watching the sunrise while it rings.

“Hello?” Steve says after the third ring. “Bucky?” He sounds concerned.

“Hi. Sorry for calling, I’m not sure where you’re hiding out so if it’s late wherever you are, uh, sorry.” Bucky is starting to feel like this was a poor idea. He doesn’t know what to say or what he wants from Steve, and calling just to say ‘hello’ is beyond weird for what their relationship is right now.

“No, it’s fine. Really. Are you okay?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Bucky answers but feels like he should say more. He’s not good at saying more. “I, uh. I…” He tries but nothing comes. Steve is quiet for a few seconds and Bucky hears shuffling.

“Buck?” Steve says, voice dropping a little. Bucky is silent for a couple beats.

“Wanna go to Coney Island?” Bucky doesn’t know where the idea comes from. It leaps from him like an eel covered in dish soap, flopping on the floor. His fingers tap on his coffee mug as he hears Steve’s intake of breath. A goat bleats outside filling their silence. Then Steve laughs a single, loud, guffaw.

“Coney Island?” He asks, his voice now alight with amusement. Bucky can hear Steve’s smile through the phone. “You know I’m currently on the run, right? Like, literally in hiding?” 

“Mm-hmm.” Bucky hums and closes his eyes. “Figured it was worth a shot asking anyway. Forget about it, alright? Stay safe and -”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Steve says.

“What?”

“I haven’t had a hot dog in decades. I’ll see what I can do.” And then Steve hangs up, leaving Bucky confused but happy. He’s not excited exactly, because Steve makes him nervous. Most people are still afraid of Bucky. Maybe not Sam, or T’Challa and definitely not Shuri. But they are timid. They watch what they say and how they move. None of them would admit it, but they do; they treat him like a ticking bomb. Steve doesn’t. And Steve never did. Even when Bucky wanted him to, when he didn’t completely trust himself around the others. He puts his hands on Bucky when he laughs and shakes his hand whenever they meet. Steve always meets his eye, questions him, laughs at him, treats him like someone he’s known since childhood. New Steve treats New Bucky like Old Steve treated Old Bucky. It should be comforting. Instead, it makes Bucky feel like an actor who hasn’t memorized his lines.

☆

The sky is black when his phone starts vibrating to the edge of the nightstand. Steve grapples for it in the dark, eyes squinting at the screen and then going wide when he sees who’s calling. He and Bucky don’t call each other. 

“Hello?” Steve says. He sits up in bed when he doesn’t get a response. “Bucky?”

“Hi. Sorry for calling, I’m not sure where you’re hiding out so if it’s late wherever you are, uh, sorry.” The line crackles to life and Steve breathes a sigh of relief. 

“No, it’s fine. Really. Are you okay?” Steve asks hurriedly. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I, uh. I…” Bucky trails off. Steve swings his legs off the side of the bed, ready to get up and go if he has to. His heart rate picks up, danger signs flashing red in his tiny parisian apartment.

“Buck?” Steve puts on his Captain America voice because if there’s something he needs to know, Bucky better spit it out.

“Wanna go to Coney Island?” Bucky mumbles and Steve’s already agitated heart plummets. He feels it fall so far down it must be sitting dense at the bottom of his rib cage.  
In an instant, he hears the waves crashing on the sand and the happy chatter of families strolling along the boardwalk. His face is caked in imaginary salt and his lips taste like ice cream. Everything, every single thing about every single time he and Bucky took a trip to good, ole Coney Island flood his mind in vibrancies of azure, viridian and sapphire. Steve’s eyes water and his lip trembles.

The thought of making new memories there is what breaks his heart in the sweetest way possible and he lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and sob.

“Coney Island? You know I’m currently on the run, right? Like, literally in hiding?” 

“Mm-hmm.” Bucky hums, and shit, he sounds like Bucky Barnes now. Like the Real Bucky. “Figured it was worth a shot asking anyway. Forget about it, alright? Stay safe and -”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“What?”

“I haven’t had a hot dog in decades. I’ll see what I can do.” Steve finishes and hangs up before his trembling voice gives him away. A hand comes up to his cover his mouth and his eyes sting. He breathes deep a few times and rakes his fingers through messy hair. Nothing about this feels real; Bucky isn’t like this anymore, he doesn’t just call Steve and ask to see him. Doesn’t call and ask to return to somewhere they have spent so much god damned time at, enough for a lifetime, out of the blue.

He wonders briefly if this is a dream but figures that his heart is aching much too painfully for that to be true.

☆

Four days pass with no word from Steve and a small part of Bucky is hoping that he has forgotten about the call. Steve is busy. He’s important. He doesn’t have the time or energy to entertain Bucky’s strange fantasies. Which is why he’s narrowing his eyes at the figure marching over the field and towards his house at 3pm on a Thursday, shaking his head. The shape is too big to be T’challa and too familiar to be a stranger. 

Bucky rushes to the sink to rinse his face of grease and combs his fingers through tangled hair. Cursing under his breath, he yanks his pit stained and wrinkled shirt off and starts searching for a new one. He curses again when it dawns on him that his clean laundry is drying on the clothesline outside.

Through the window, Steve’s silhouette is much larger now. The wooden door clunks open and Bucky half jogs to where a clean t-shirt billows, hanging in the sun. Quickly tugging it down and over his head, he turns back to the grass field feeling awkward but the smallest bit fresher. Steve is close enough to wave now, which he does with a single raised hand. Bucky waves back and tucks his hair behind his ears, suddenly self conscious of his scruffiness. 

“Bucky Barnes in the flesh.” Steve greets when he’s in earshot.

“Afternoon.” Says Bucky.

“Didn’t need to change into your Sunday finest just for me.” Steve teases, much closer now and Bucky observes that he looks different than he usually does. He’s grown a beard. 

“Well I gotta look nice for America’s poster boy.” Bucky gives a slight smile and sticks out a hand to shake. Steve chuckles before ignoring his outstretched hand entirely, going straight for a one armed hug. Bucky tenses but if Steve notices, he does nothing to signify so.

“I’m not so sure I’m America’s poster boy anymore.” He mumbles, pulling back. “Anyway, I’ve been calling you but I kept getting your voicemail. Was afraid you’re ignoring me.” Steve says, placing his hands on his hips and taking in the surroundings. Bucky’s face reddens and he stutters.

“What? Of course not. I’m real sorry, my phone must’ve died on me and I forgot to plug it in.” Bucky explains. “I’m not great with phones.”

“I know.” Steve grins. “That’s why I came here anyway.”

And so Bucky shows Steve around. He shows him his goats, his little house, his window he watches the sunrise from. Steve smiles all the way through the forty five second long tour. Then they’re standing silent and face to face in Buckys kitchen. Bucky chews his lip and decides to address the elephant in the room.

“So, I didn’t pack anything. Or plan anything since I didn’t know you were coming. Uh, what exactly is the plan here?” He says.

“Well,” Steve starts. “I was thinking this. I have a plane, we fly the plane to New York, we get off the plane.”

Bucky nods slowly. “Where’d you get the plane?”

“Shuri.”

“Where’d she get the plane?”

“T’Challa.”

Bucky blinks at Steve who blinks at him.

“So, T’Challa is giving us,” Bucky gestures between them, “a plane to fly to Coney fuckin Island?” He asks, disbelieving and Steve stands thinking.

“I don’t think he knows.” Steve says quietly and slowly.

“Hmm?”

“I said, I don’t think he kno -”

“No, I heard you I just want to make sure I have this right.” Bucky interrupts. “Your plan is to steal one of King T’Challa’s airplanes, pilot it ourselves halfway across the globe, just so you can eat a hot dog?”

“Just so I can eat a hot dog with you.” Steve has no shame specifying and Bucky's cheeks color.

“After all T’challa has done for me I don’t think I can justifying hijacking one of his planes.” Bucky says as he shakes his head with a pained smile. “We can just stay here, you already flew here, I’ll show you around the city. It’ll be fun.” Bucky says. Steve looks taken back, eyelashes fluttering.

“C’mon, Buck. I’m joking with you. Shuri wouldn’t allow us to use the plane unless she cleared it with her brother. How do you think I got here in the first place?” Steve asks and he looks slightly disappointed, but still smiling. Bucky can tell it’s another one of those times where Steve had expected him to act one way and he reacted another. He’s encountered this look before. Maybe Old Bucky would have been incredibly angry with Steve for hatching up such a stupid plan, or maybe Old Bucky would have been eager to join in on it. New Bucky is lost in the water. 

“With your track record of rule breaking I wouldn’t put anything past you.” Bucky remarks after a few seconds of silence. It doesn’t have the playfulness he wants it to have, though.

☆

Two stuffed duffle bags sit by the front door. One is in much worse shape than the other and it brings back memories. Real memories. Bucky remembers being on the run like it was yesterday. Scrambled thoughts, words echoing around his head. Sleeping on blankets, smelling like shit, looking like shit. Feeling like shit. A packed bag to Bucky feels like a blow to the gut and he has to tell himself over and over that this time is different. When they leave tomorrow morning, they’ll have a destination. 

Steve is showering and Bucky is cleaning up dinner. He cooked them a simple recipe that’s become a staple dish since moving to Wakanda. Then they sat outside on the hill while they ate and watched the sunset. Bucky had hoped that it would be lovely, that Steve would be as entranced as Bucky usually is by the view, and he was. But he can’t shake the sinking feeling that something is wrong.

☆

“All set?” Steve asks once the two of them are standing inside the plane. It’s sleeker, newer than anything they’ve seen before.

“Yep.”

Steve glances at Bucky’s left shoulder, where an arm should be. Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t need a metal arm for Coney Island. 

“Alright, Sarge.” He says and types in the coordinates. “Off we go, then.”

“Off we go.” Repeats Bucky with a nod.

Five hours of near silence follows. Conversation sparse and brittle as they drift through grey clouds. They ran out of things to talk about before dinner was over last night and the reality of what they’re doing worms it’s way under Bucky’s skin, wiggling around and making it impossible to sit still. What’s going to happen when they arrive? What are they going to do? Go on some rides? Play some games? Bucky mentally kicks himself for getting into this mess. He knows he isn’t good company, he can feel it. Steve shouldn’t have risked so much to suffer in his companionship.

When they near the landing site in the town of Saratoga, an automated voice announces the time and weather; 1:03pm, 26 degrees fahrenheit and sunny. Bucky welcomes the east coast chill. 

Tangled, bare branches part to reveal a cemented clearing carved out of a dense forest and a large grey building sitting alongside the landing strip, a Wakandan flag waving from the flagpole. Bucky flicks his seatbelt off to take a step closer to the window, watching the plane land itself with ease. It’s only his second time aboard a self flying plane so he allows himself to be impressed. Lips parting in silent awe as the carrier lowers itself flawlessly, Bucky leans too far forward and softly bumps his nose on the window in trying to get a better view. It doesn’t hurt, Bucky just likes watching. He turns to face Steve.

“You’d think I’d -” Bucky chokes on his words when he sees Steve looking at him already. His lips are curled into a faint smile, eyebrows raised and eyes so, so soft. Bucky clears his throat. “You’d think I’d be more used to advanced technology living in Wakanda and all, but, jeez. Never thought I’d see the day a god damned plane lands itself.”

Steve undoes his seatbelt and stands in one fluid motion. “You and me both, pal. You and me both. So, unfortunately this is as close as we could land without showing up on someone's radar.” He says, tossing Bucky’s duffle bag at him. “We’re upstate a bit, still a few hours drive but I got a leadfoot so we could be there by four.”

“I’ll drive, if you want. Kinda feels like I’m not pulling my weight on this field trip.” Says Bucky as the tail end of the compact plane hisses open.

“Alright, I can navigate then.” Steve nods while strolling out of the plane. Bucky follows not far behind and lets out a whistle when the January air hits bare skin. Their t-shirts aren’t going to cut it.

He trails after Steve into the compound clutching his ratty bag tightly. The interior is stark white and pristine and Bucky shuffles in with his five 0’clock shadow, faded clothes and dark eye circles. He’s happy lingering while Steve talks to the woman at the desk, all smiles and hand gestures and ‘good to see yous’ until she hands him a pair of keys and he comes bouncing back to Bucky.

Steve rattles them. “Let’s roll.” He says before taking out a jacket from his bag and slipping it on. Bucky does the same and holds his hands out for the keys before Steve can change his mind about driving. The two of them exit the same door they entered and Steve takes the lead again, pointing Bucky in the right direction.

“This way.” He says and confirms what Bucky has been thinking. Bucky rolls his eyes and honestly, he shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Steve Rogers.” He says, a loose smile playing on his lips.

“What?”  
“You’ve done this before. You came back to New York before.” He mumbles and it’s not a question.

“Course I have, it’s home.” Says Steve with a shrug as he weaves them between hangars. “Cars up here.” He points. If perhaps he were anyone else, Bucky might reprimand Steve for returning to his home when the whole world is on a man hunt for him. But Steve does what Steve wants to do, no matter how stupid.

Steve leads them to their ride and, without a word, grabs Bucky’s bag and throws it in the backseat for him. Bucky mutters a thanks and hops in the driver's side, adjusting the seat to his liking. He’s still fiddling when he hears through the window the undeniable snap of a photo being taken and his head swivels to see Steve standing outside his door with his phone raised. Bucky knocks on the glass.

“What are you doing?” He enunciates. Steve doesn’t even look at him, he just smiles to himself and walks around the front of the car to seat himself in the passengers. 

“The Winter Soldier driving a minivan. Sam will never let you live it down.” Steve teases, tapping away at his phone screen.

“Noo! Don’t send that to Sam!” Bucky laughs. “Sam doesn’t need to see that.” 

“Yeah, but I need Sam to see it.” Steve joyfully explains, reaching over and picking up the keys from Bucky’s thigh. He jams them in the ignition and turns, arm stretching over the center console. “Enough fooling around Buck, I want a hot dog. Let’s go.”

And all Bucky can do it stare at Steve. He’s so close to him, no hint of worry at being this close to him. Maybe not even aware of how close he is. And Steve is so alight right now, happier than he’s been in months. He’s in full goof-mode, cheeks pink with amusement, eyes a little far away. Steve pulls his hand from the ignition and leans on the armrest, his right hand coming up to turn on the heat and radio. Bucky’s chest feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls and it’s hard to breathe for a couple seconds before the feeling evaporates. The heat coming off of Steve’s body next to him warms Bucky faster than the air blowing from the vents. 

☆

The air on the boardwalk moves with the waves but it churns and heaves like a beast of its own. It snakes into Steve’s lungs and coils inside until tumbling out in pretty puffs. They traded in hoodies for winter coats and pulled on hats more for the warmth than the disguise and now they stand on the sparsely populated boardwalk while the sun hangs low in the sky. It really is the same as Bucky remembers. It’s the same as Steve remembers, too.

Despite it being January, there are still people walking around. Not many, but enough to give the place some life. Steve tilts his head toward the pier where lights flash against the dusk in a way that asks, ‘wanna walk?’ Bucky nods and they fall in stride.

They walk against the wind with hands in pockets, making casual conversation until Steve points at a keychain shop and says, “That used to be a pharmacy.” And Oh, Steve is right. A muted image flickers to life in Bucky’s head and he watches.

They were scrawny teenagers carrying around nickels in their pockets, spending way too much on ride tickets and sweets. Steve had been coughing up a fit all day so they figured it best to pick up some medicine on their way home. Of course, the prices in the seafront pharmacy were inflated unreasonably because of the location and so they bought ice cream instead. Steve ended up catching a cold and confined to the bed for the following week.

The two of them are lost in thought. The same thought. It’s a weird thing to think about, sharing an almost forgotten memory with someone.

“Man, that seems like forever ago.” Bucky remarks. Steve’s eyes slide from the keychain shop to Bucky, clear and a little cold.

“Yeah, it does.” Steve says. And they keep walking.

For the most part Bucky keeps his head down. It’s warmer that way. He watches his feet thunk along the lined wood, step by step while Steve tells him about a little mom and pop place that closed down right next to his apartment in Paris. Bucky can really picture Steve living in Paris. He’s not sure why, maybe because Paris has a dreamlike quality to it, a glamor that only exists in places you haven’t been. And while Steve may be tough as nails, Bucky remembers sketch pads laying around their shared apartment back in the day. He remembers Steve reading and re-reading books until he could quote his favorite passages. Steve’s an artist at heart, a true romantic. 

“Go to any fancy art museums in Paris?” He asks.

“I have, actually!” Steve gushes. “The Louvre, of course, Petit Palais and Musée d'Orsay.” He doesn’t even butcher the names.

“Which was your favorite?” Bucky reaches out with his right foot to kick a crumpled wrapper further down the boardwalk in front of them.

“Musée d’Orsay, for sure.” Steve says without even thinking. Bucky kicks the wrapper again once they catch up to it. 

“Why’s that?” Kick.

“Lots of impressionist stuff.” The wrapper wad bounces over to Steve who kicks it up ahead.

“You like impressionism?” Bucky asks. Kick.

“Yeah. I don’t know a whole lot about art but impressionism is easy to understand and easy to appreciate.” Shrugs Steve. Kick. “I guess it’s just comforting to know that other people see the world in this beautiful, almost kinda magical, way. And they believe in that vision so strongly that they make a permanent place for it.”

Bucky kicks the wrapper. “Yeah, that is nice.” He says after a few seconds of thought.

☆

Hand full of hot dogs, Bucky watches Steve struggle to take hold of the remaining three being handed to him over the food cart counter. The smell of fried food clings to everything on the pier. Chewing gum is stuck to every surface in sight, faded an stepped on, dotting the scene with sticky brushstrokes. Maneuvering his hands just so, Steve figures out how to hold three hotdogs in one hand and drowns them in ketchup and mustard. 

“We really needed five dogs, huh?” Bucky asks once they’re walking again, weaving through game stands and rides. Steve nods, cheeks bulging.

“Are you kidding? That’s nothing for us.” 

“I just thought you might pace yourself, that’s all.” Says Bucky, a little happier now that he has warm food in his hand.

“I’m Captain America, the hot dogs can’t keep up with me.” Steve justifies and Bucky quickly swings his head around, making sure no one is close enough to hear their conversation. “Oh, relax. Eat a weiner.” 

Bucky doesn’t want to laugh but he does. Steve’s teasing tone makes it clear he is aware his suggestion has more than one meaning. And yes, they’re both grown men but they both let out a snort and it feels so good to laugh. It feels so, incredibly good to walk down a smelly, almost-unpopulated boardwalk, eating messy junk food in the dead of winter alongside someone who is content to do the same. Bucky feels really good.

Steve strolls beside him, hat pulled over his ears and down so far it’s nearly comical, dots of mustard in his beard, and so smiley and bouncy. He hasn’t understood until today, until now why Steve was his best friend. It makes him wish they could turn back the clock. Bucky shakes his head and thinks to himself that it doesn’t have to be like that. 

They had time then and they have time now. New Bucky can still be friends with New Steve in this timeline. Though to Bucky, it’s strange to label what they are as ‘friends’. Bucky remembers Steve but that’s all. There’s no attachment, no nostalgia, no deep feeling of camaraderie. Bucky remembers the look in Steve’s eyes when he fell from the train and swallows thickly. It’s challenging to imagine ever being important to someone like Steve.

With glassy eyes, Bucky chews his hot dog slowly. He’s brought back to reality by Steve calling his name and trying not to look concerned.

“Sorry, zoned out.” He offers. Bucky looks up to point at the nearest game stall. “Wanna play?”

Boardwalk games aren’t that fun when you have perfect hand eye coordination and aim. Bright lights spring to life and a crackling speaker announces ‘we have a winner!’ at every stall they exit. A half an hour later, they’re sporting cheap, neon cateye sunglasses with armfulls of bloated plushies spilling from their grasp. Steve picks out a blue balloon from the last stall they visit and yanks Bucky’s wrist from his side.  
He watches, confused but amused as Steve delicately ties the silver ribbon around his wrist. It’s terribly uncomfortable, the ribbon rubs his skin from under the many layers of coats whenever he moves but still Bucky makes sure it’s knotted in place tightly. 

“There.” Says Steve. “Now I won’t lose you if you wander off.” 

“Or fall off any trains.” Bucky adds helpfully and Steve gasps, shoving him as best he can while still holding his prizes.

“Don’t even joke about that!” He yells but his lips betray him and split into a gleaming grin while his chest shakes with laughter. “Totally not funny!” Steve wants to be angry, how could Bucky make light of something like that? Something that broke the both of them, something that ruined his life? But he can’t be that mad, because Bucky is right here in front of him looking so stupid with those cheap sunglasses crookedly perched on his face, gripping a stuffed penguin while the balloon bobs in the wind, hitting him in the head and grabbing at strands of long hair and forcing them upright in staticy glory.

“Not funny.” Steve says, softer this time, feeling humorlessly vulnerable. He reaches out with his fingertips to push Bucky’s chest again, this time just making sure that he’s really here. 

Then they walk again, slower this time. With nowhere to be, no prizes to win, no hot dogs to eat, they meander further along with no real purpose. Steve does most of the talking which is fine by Bucky. He responds when he feels like it, asking questions and adding comments. But there’s no pressure to keep conversation going.  
It pitters out and them comes back around when one of them thinks of something to say. The silence that sits between then now is not like on the silence on the plane. 

They reach the end of the pier as the sun is setting behind dark clouds. The cold nips at Bucky’s fingers and nose and he remembers the snow, he remembers the war. Gunfire in his head. Leaning on the railing, Steve heaves a sigh as he looks out to the booming sea. Bleached yellow light from the sky slips into a thick silver, the color of pocket change in 1937. The color of German handguns in 1944.

“Steve.” Bucky says, unloading his prizes by his feet. Steve gives a grunt in response. “Steve, I need to say something.”

His friend turns to face him, elbows still resting on the splintered railing. Steve is observant, but the way he’s standing reads relaxed. Bucky’s never been good with words.

“I know I’m not who I used to be.” Bucky starts and Steve shifts. His eyebrows furrow and he cocks his head. “I’m not the guy you remember. I’m someone else now. No, don’t say anything yet, please. I’m not Sergeant James Barnes, you know? I’m whatever's left of me, I’m not the Soldier. But I am sorry I’m not who you remember.”

There’s so much more Bucky wants to say but all his thoughts are overlapping and sewing themselves together with silver needles and he can’t undo the stitching with his silver hand, so he rubs his face with his other. 

“Bucky, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. You don’t have to apologize for being the way you are.” Steve speaks slowly and carefully. Bucky shakes his head.

“I’m not sorry for who I am, I’m sorry for who I’m not. Does that even make sense?” He asks and Steve purses his lips. “I’m still figuring out what to do. I’m not fully healed but I’m getting there and I’m learning how to deal with the things I’ve done but no one is teaching me how to be the way I used to be. I’ve read books, articles, about myself to try and learn. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be that way again, a hero and all. You know?”  
When Bucky finishes, he doesn’t want to look at Steve so he keeps his head down. Waves crash along wooden poles below. 

“You’re doing fine.” Steve says sharply and Bucky lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Don’t feel like you have to live up to the past. It’s the past.”

Bucky nods, still avoiding Steve’s gaze. He watches the ocean which is now a shiny, sterling mass tossing noise around. 

“Buck, look at me.” Steve commands. He takes a breath before locking ashen eyes with Steve’s. “I’m serious. You don’t need to be who you used to be.” Steve’s eyes are glowing sulphate against the dusk, softer than silk and they anchor Bucky down against his will. 

“It doesn’t feel that way, Steve.” His voice comes out weaker than he wants. 

“You don’t have anything to prove, you -”

“Bullshit. I’ve got everything to prove!” Bucky shouts, taking a step backwards.

“To who?” Steve asks. He keeps his voice steady. Calm.

“Everyone.” Bucky says sadly. He wants to say ‘to you, Steve’. He wants to say it so badly it hurts. He wants to say ‘I’m not good enough for you to have saved and I know it’. But he doesn’t. 

“Bucky, you’ve been through hell. None of us can even begin to understand what they did to you. No one expects anything from you.” 

“You do!” Bucky doesn’t mean to say it and Steve’s jaw drops before he laughs with no hint of amusement. “You treat me like someone I’m not, you think I’m your old pal Bucky when I don’t even know who that is!”

“You are Bucky.”

“No, I’m not. I’m the gutted out Soldier who happens to remember your face.”

“You dragged me from the river.” Steves says, cold and clean. “Your orders were to kill me and you disobeyed them.”

“All that means is that I didn’t kill you. You don’t know me.” As soon as Bucky says it, Steve falters. Part of Bucky wants to take it back, he didn’t mean to hurt Steve but another part of him is hoping that maybe his words make Steve feel as lonely as he’s been feeling. A tiny pin-prick size of him wants Steve to hurt the way he hurts so that maybe he will get it. 

“You don’t know anything about me.” Insists Bucky in almost a growl. 

Steve studies him. The blues of his eyes darkening along with the sky as he continues to lean on the railing. His face is steely, jaw set square. Bucky follows the rise and fall of his chest, the only thing about him that’s moving and debates apologizing immediately. Fossilized, Steve stares at Bucky like he wants to say something but his jaw is clenched so tightly Bucky thinks he might crack a tooth.

Instead of apologizing, he takes a step closer to the railing himself and braces his arm there, facing the ripping wind from the sea. He knows that his face is red. He’s embarrassed to have said anything to Steve at all. This wasn’t supposed to be about the drama of the past, this was supposed to be a fresh start for Bucky where he could find his footing in the maze that is he and Steve’s relationship. He was not supposed to spill his guts and yell at Steve after everything he’s done for him. He was not supposed to be upset that he is the way he is despite trying to be better. He was not supposed to feel like a child clunking around in too big shoes but he does. Bucky does all of those things. 

After what feels like several minutes, Steve speaks.

“Maybe I don’t. But I’d like to get to know you, whoever you are now.” He says, turning his back to the pier and standing parallel Bucky. Behind them, light bulbs twinkle as streetlights come to life and the carnival lights bloom. The darkness is inky now. January blackness works hard to swallow the remaining glow as night takes over and the two silhouettes turn to walk from the charcoal sea to ebb back where light can reach them.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s eyes are wide and glassy as he drinks in Steve Rogers standing in his doorway, shivering and sorry. There’s no shield to drop, no fists to lower this time, but make no mistake, this is battle and Bucky recognizes this as surrender. He’s able to bring Captain America to his knees without even trying. It’s terrifying and electrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, this is going to have to be a three shot :/ I wanted it to be short and sweet, under 10,000 words but the part three will put it closer to 15,000. anyway, i hope you enjoy and please forgive my mistakes!

It’s a shitty motel. Cash only, flickering neon sign, groaning vending machines in the front office with expired snacks clutching onto their rungs. Bucky shells out three twenties and drops them on the counter. He’s handed two keys by a man that doesn’t smile and hikes his duffel bag high on his shoulder. Outside, Steve makes pictures in the gravel parking lot with the toe of his sneaker. 

They haven’t exchanged words beyond what’s necessary since the boardwalk and Bucky’s tongue rests heavy in his mouth. Steve catches his room key as Bucky tosses it and they walk single file down the row of cracking cement residences. Room 5. Room 6. That’s that.

“Night.” Says Steve, looking up from slotting the key into the handle. Bucky feels Steve’s gaze on him and works on unlocking his own door.

“Night.” He replies, eyes forward. He can’t look, he can’t.

There’s a couple seconds where they’re both stagnant against their respective thresholds. Keys in, handles turned, but doors unopened. Breaths fanning out like smokestacks. Bucky’s never felt an atmosphere like it. There’s something palpable between them, laying in wait. Unresolved but barely opened. A hole in the world that’s leaking gas with a low, slow hiss it can almost be missed and he keeps swallowing lungfulls. Bucky pushes the door open and advances inside.

His bag lands and rolls off the bed from the force he throws it with and the door slams behind him, just missing his heels as it swings. Bucky huffs a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. They were having fun. He was having fun.

The bed sinks with his weight as he sits on the edge facing the wall. Red electric numbers glow 7:38 on the bedside clock and Bucky sighs again, taking in a deep breath and blinking at the time. Too early to sleep. Too early to dream about better times and chase after them with frostbitten fingers.

There are ghosts in Room 6, Bucky thinks. There are things in the air here with no anchors to tie them down so that they stay put. Every time he empties his lungs, some kind of feeling spills out as sure as carbon dioxide and twice as potent. The threading of the paisley bedspread shifts under his fingers. Echoes blip in and out of existence, punctuated by volleyed dots and dashes. Left ear to the right, then back again. The curtains move and part on their own to establish a streaky black rectangle where the outside looks in, unhaunted. A barrier to show him mercy. 

Bucky leaves his shoes on but slides the coat off his shoulders where it bunches around him on the bed. He flops backwards, letting his legs dangle. The light from the motel lamp feels stale and used and Bucky watches the ceiling. He watches it for a half an hour or more and then starts hearing voices through the wall. He knows it’s not ghosts this time.

It’s glacially sobering, knowing that Steve is watching TV just a thin wall away. Bucky’s heart rate slows until it feels like molasses is pumping through his veins and makes his limbs go numb in bittersweet indifference. Steve has never felt so far away.

Bucky sits up slowly and forces his eyes back into focus. He pulls his coat back on and grabs his keys from the pocket to make sure he can get back in. He offers no preparation or pep talk he just moves, goes, marching. Just a soldier following orders until he stands outside Room 5 with a fist raised, ready to knock. Bucky stands frozen, eyes tracing the labeled number on the eggshell door. Go. Knock. Do it, just please do it.

He doesn’t. Bucky disobeys orders and doesn’t breathe until he’s locked back in Room 6.

In the shower he scrubs the chill from his skin. Let’s it circle down the drain and steps out much warmer. He takes a razor to his scruff and avoids his own sad eyes in the reflection. Cold bathroom tiles send the cold right back up through his heels and he kicks a towel over to stand on, the TV still blaring next door.

There’s a knock on his door and Bucky’s razor skips, nicking his chin. He winces and drops it into the sink as Steve’s muffled voice beats on the door, saying something he can’t make out. He’s still got a towel around his hips as Steve knocks a second time so he picks up the pile of dirty clothes from the floor and pulls them on as fast as he can before cautiously making his way out of the bathroom. 

Gulping, he takes a few steps towards the door. His eyes flit over to the curtains to make sure they are drawn; Bucky really doesn’t want Steve to see him skulking around as he debates opening the door, and breathes a sigh of relief to see that they’re drawn tight. Steve knocks a third time and Bucky flinches.

“Please Bucky, open the door, I’m freezing out here. I brought a peace offering!” He shouts. Bucky can practically hear Steve’s teeth chattering and his face contorts in guilt. The door gets closer before Bucky can register that he’s even approaching it, but he stills before reaching to open.

Maybe it would be best to let this all go. 

Maybe it would be best to let Steve exhaust his kindness and realize that Bucky really, truly isn’t who he remembers. God, that really would be easy, wouldn’t it? If there was no pressure from Steve Rogers to be Bucky Barnes. If there was no Steve Rogers to let down. Time seems to stand still as Bucky considers what life would be like without the expectations. He rests his forehead on the door and closes his eyes in thought. A promise of freedom hangs in front of him. True freedom. Easy freedom. Life off the grid. It taste so sour sweet his mouth might blister. 

But that’s a lonely life. Bucky has become horribly acquainted with lonelism over decades and decades are he's not eager to revisit that graveyard. In his current position, Bucky has so many hands reaching to help him that he can’t shake them all fast enough. 

His throat burns. This is no way to show his gratitude. Steve knocks a fourth time and with a grimace, Bucky reaches for the doorknob and turns. 

Then he steps back to allow Steve room to come inside but he doesn’t, he just huddles outside there in a t-shirt and jeans, shivering and looking at Bucky with pleading eyes. 

“You can come in.” Bucky says as politely as possible, beckoning Steve inside. He trudges in, something bright and orange clutched in his hand but he doesn’t stray far from the entryway, hardly moving out of the way when Bucky closes the door. It’s weird the way Steve watches Bucky’s face for some sign of approval, for the red light to turn green. The absolute power he has over Steve right now makes him want to shrink and hide; if anyone wields sanction between the two of them he was sure it was Steve. Whatever natural rhythm they had fallen into hours ago abandoned them gracelessly and unapologetically. 

“I’m not mad. At you.” Says Bucky. Steve clings to his eyes when they meet, begging him not to look away and Bucky shuffles his feet.

“It’s fine if you are.”

“I’m not, really.” Bucky emphasizes, he sounds tired. Like he doesn’t want to be talking about this. Unfolding his hand, Steve reveals a jumbo package of Reese’s and offers it to Bucky.

“Hope you still like these, they used to be your favorite.” Steve waits for Bucky to take the candy from him.

“Yeah, I remember.” Bucky says with a dim smile. He eyelids flutter as he fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I take it back, what I meant to say was, Here Buck. Here’s a brand new food you might like, why don’t you give it a try?” Steve tests the water with a light tone and Bucky nods, a little amused.

“A little overboard, but I’ll take it.”

“Okay,” Steve laughs and then clears his throat once Bucky takes the Reese’s from him. “Bucky, I’m sorry if I ever put pressure on you. It’s not what I intended but regardless, I’m sorry I made you feel that way and I’ll really work on treating you differently. Or, if you want I’ll just leave you alone after this. But if I’m being honest, Bucky I’d really like to be friends. And we could start over, even. Clean slate and all. It’s up to you.”

When Bucky doesn’t say anything and just holds Steve’s gaze, it’s Steve’s turn to fidget. He rubs his palms together and chews a chapped lip. 

Bucky’s eyes are wide and glassy as he drinks in Steve Rogers standing in his doorway, shivering and sorry. There’s no shield to drop, no fists to lower this time, but make no mistake, this is battle and Bucky recognizes this as surrender. He’s able to bring Captain America to his knees without even trying. It’s terrifying and electrifying. His vision tunnels, his hands start sweating and he feels adrenaline at the pulse points.

Bucky doesn’t know how long he stands there just looking at Steve. His heart drumming, his fingers itching to move, his throat choking on the words he wants to say, Bucky stares. God, he doesn’t even know what emotion this is. Disbelief? Gratefulness? Relief? Happiness, maybe. Bucky registers the need for action, when your brain is screaming at you to do something but not telling you what to do. He thinks, and thinks and no words seem to fit what he’s feeling, not even ‘thank you’. Not even if he said ‘thank you’ fifty times would it feel like enough.

Bucky races forward as Steve twists to bow out of the door and it feels like he can’t breathe when Steve’s fingers graze the handle. Blundering and clumsy, so fast he almost trips, Bucky’s fingers dip into the collar of Steve’s shirt and he yanks him back into Room 6. His fingers are still hooked into Steve’s shirt as Steve turns to face him, rampant confusion written on his face. Fear almost. 

A strong palm fits against Bucky’s chest in automatic reaction, ready to push him away, ready to block a bunch. But Bucky’s warm fingers stay locked tight clutching the flimsy t-shirt as he pulls Steve towards him and rests his chin on a broad shoulder. Bucky thinks back to their friendly hug in Wakanda and tells himself that this is really not a big deal. But it feels like a big deal. Steve’s hand remains on his ribcage, cautious against his pounding heart. 

It only takes Steve a second to relax into the hug, free arm coming up to snake around Bucky’s waist as he exhales. He gives Bucky a few pats on the back to let him know that ‘it’s okay’, whatever ‘it’ is and Bucky’s chest is still damp through his cotton shirt, hair still dripping from his shower, and skin still warm. Steve is acutely aware of how fast his friend’s heart is beating, thrumming into his fingertips, screaming in protest at the vulnerability.

And Bucky radiates heat. He’s burning against Steve who defrosts around him, bodies clunky and comfortable. The smell of cheap hotel soap hangs off Bucky like a second skin.

Eventually, Bucky pulls away. He squashed the pack of Reese’s when he grabbed at Steve and his arm hangs limp by his side. 

“Thank you, Steve.”

☆

Whirring and groaning, the vending machine eats Steve’s dollar bill for the second time. It took three tries to get Bucky’s Reeses but it doesn’t matter how badly he wants that pack of Doritos, he’s not giving the metal monster anymore money. 

Across the street from the motel sits a 24 hour diner. Steve can basically smell the coffee and burgers from here and with one last effort, he jimmies the snack machine thinking that maybe his chip bag will change it’s mind and jump off it’s hook. The man at the front desk who doesn’t smile yells at him for shaking the vending machine and he apologizes while leaving.

He’s so lost in thought that he almost forgets to look before crossing the street. But there’s not much traffic at 10pm on a backroad.

With a ding to signal his entrance, Steve waltzes into the diner and seats himself. There’s one other customer talking on the phone across the restaurant who picks at a half eaten pie. Steve sighs and checks his phone. A message from Natasha sent two hours ago.

Nat: You boys having fun?  
8:08pm

He unlocks his phone, shaking his head. 

Steve: How do you know where I am? Should we be worried?  
10:09 pm

Nat: Wilson sent me a pic.   
10:10pm 

Steve sets his phone down when a waitress wanders over to take his order. A black coffee would be heavenly right now and he figures he wouldn't get much sleep tonight anyway. One black coffee, coming right up.

Steve: Should have known.   
10:12pm

Nat: You didn’t answer me, how’s your playdate going?  
10:12pm

“Thanks.” Steve mutters to the waitress as she pours his coffee. He thinks about how to answer.

Steve: Good, I think. Feels nice to be home.  
10:14pm

Steve thinks it’s really sweet how Natasha cares. He waits a full three minutes for her to text back but she doesn’t. 

Back in Room 6, Bucky tries to sleep. He lays on his side with the stained covers pulled up to his nose and closes his heavy eyelids. Deep sleep never comes for him. He turns over every ten fifteen minutes on the dot and keeps his eyes shut tight, pretending that he’s asleep.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky watches as Steve’s steely eyes slowly melt in tandem with the snowflakes that fall on his shoulders. Steve’s eyes flit from Bucky’s left to his right, searching for something in his face but Bucky doesn’t know what. They stand there so long that Bucky feels his boots start to sink into the damp, heavy sand and his jeans weigh him down. It’s entirely indecipherable, the way Steve is looking at him. Angry, relieved, calm, tense, confused, it all seems probable to Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember when i said the third part was going to be the last? turns out im a filthy fucking liar. as always, i apologize for spelling/grammar mistakes and hope you enjoy!

February

January ends. The days blend together and sail over Bucky in one continuous entanglement after he returns to Wakanda. He spends his days milling around, not doing much of anything. Never finding the focus to think about any one thing for too long. Unsatisfied and lonely. He does keep his phone charged, though. But he doesn’t call Steve and Steve doesn’t call him; Things were left so open ended he’s not sure where they go from here. Or if they go from here. And after the fourth unbearably quiet morning, he searches for a dose of courage. 

He doesn’t need a lot of it, just enough to get him out the door. Momentum carries Bucky through the field and to the edge of town. The streets are awake now and alive with motion. People on their way to work, school. People food shopping, talking, riding bikes, people who know this place like the back of their hand. Bucky’s stopped a couple times, friendly faces saying hello and asking how he is. They flash the sunniest smiles but keep their distance. Bucky tells them he’s feeling good and resumes his walk.

The White Wolf, they call him. And they know his face well, he needs no identification to slip into the royal building. No escort to follow him down the hallways, no spears pointed and questions posed, but dark eyes accompany his shallow stride. Automatic doors whistle open.

Shuri doesn’t look up as Bucky enters the lab, she's entirely absorbed in her work, standing at a bench gloved and goggled. He leaves her be and wanders around, taking in the surroundings. Not that he understands what everything is or what everything does. He doesn’t feel the need to. Shuri notices him by now, he’s sure, but she doesn’t raise her head.

“Sergeant Barnes, how nice of you visit.” She calls against the music pumping through the speakers. Bucky approaches, hand in pocket and gives her a smile.

“Hey, Doc.”

“Don’t you ‘hey, doc’ me. Who do you think you are, you never come see me anymore!” Shuri drops the instrument she’s holding to replace it with the smallest screwdriver he’s ever seen as she goes back to work.

“Well, you never send invitations.” Bucky says, taking a seat on a nearby stool.

“Oh, is that why? I can start sending them, then. And here I was worried that you had gotten too cool for me.” She flinches a only millimeter as the contraption in front of her gives off a tiny jolt.

“Too cool for you? Never.” Bucky chuckles.

“I know! It wouldn’t make sense.” She says. Bucky watches as she tinkers with whatever metal invention sits on the bench and finds himself hypnotized. Shuri’s so young, so accomplished, so brilliant. She didn’t just find a place in the world to fit into, she carved one out for herself; Shuri commands respect in the gentlest way possible and he’s glad to give it. 

“So, what can I do for you?” She asks once she’s done, hands on her hips. Bucky shrugs.

“Nothing. Just wanna watch today, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, as long as you stay out of my way.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

And then Shuri is back to work, paying no mind to the super soldier on the other side of the workbench. It was weird at first to have Bucky around, but after he came off the ice he was lonely. So far from home and everything he once knew, Bucky didn’t know anything other than Shuri’s lab. So he hung around. Almost all day, everyday and spoke a sentence more each day until actual conversations were held between the two. 

Sometimes, Bucky pretended to be a late night talk show host interviewing Shuri about her latest invention. He would adopt a fake voice and everything and asks question after question until his curiosity won over his showmanship and his voice would return to it’s gravelly state. Shuri almost always ended up explaining things to him in simple terms, her perpetual patience never running out. 

T’challa’s responsibilities had grown and Shuri saw a lot less of him in the past few months. Bucky was a well-suited stand in. 

Bucky comes back again two days later. He brings a book to read and checks his phone. He sighs and shambles around, eyeing up all the high tech machines and humming. He makes Shuri tell him what she’s working on and fetches them lunch when Shuri’s stomach growls, he bugs her to eat up, she’s a growing girl and all.   
“What’s with you today?”

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asks, mouth full of food.

“You usually mope around my lab. But today, you’re twitching all over the place.” She details, offering an unopened boxed salad to one of her assistants.

“First of all, I do not mope. Second, I’m just in a good mood I guess, am I allowed to be happy?” 

“As long as you keep bringing me food.” Shuri smiles. “What’s got you in a good mood?” Suddenly nervous, Bucky opens his mouth then closes it. His plan sounded a lot more concrete last night in his head.

“I’ve decided that I wanna learn Xhosa.” It comes out like a question. There’s no variety in Shuri’s already present smile and then she blinks.

“Okay.” She says simply.

“Okay?” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “That’s it? I thought you’d be psyched!”

“I am happy, but do you have a plan?” She asks, wiping her fingers with a napkin. 

“Well, no but I figured you could help me figure something out. I don’t really know where to start.”

“There are many universities in the city if you’d like to enroll-”

“No, no. I’d rather not take classes, I just wanna learn at my own pace. More of a hobby, you know?”

“Okay.” Shuri nods again. 

☆

The yellowing pages under his fingertips are soft with age. Folded corners, pen and pencil marks along the margins, underlining important sentences. The publishing date reads 1984 and Bucky wonders if the information is out of date, but the librarian handed him this one. She said that if he really wanted to learn Xhosa, he would need a teacher and then winked at him. Blushing, he insisted he just needed the book.

Now he sits on a hill outside of town with a brand new notebook perched on his lap and twirls a cheap ballpoint pen. Bare white pages are daunting. The blue lines break them up and force a framework into existence, a guideline, a skeleton. A little help never goes unappreciated. Bucky sets down ‘Xhosa for Beginners’ in the grass and takes a deep breath. 

This is new. Something the Old Bucky never had, something the Winter Soldier never had. He’s learning a new language! He’s proud of himself. He went to the library alone, he bought a new notebook and pack of pens from the dollar store and walked out to a quiet spot and it was all his own idea. New Bucky. Maybe if he treats himself like a new man, everyone else will too.

Soon, he finds himself flipping through pages, scratching down notes and mumbling words to no one. He sounds out syllables slowly. Bucky squints at the fading text and copies it down in his notebook, hunching over the pages until the sound of his ringtone cuts through the calm.

Sliding it out of his back pocket, he is fully prepared to answer a call from Shuri asking where he was today. He’s ready, with his excuse prepared and everything. But the caller ID shows Steve’s name and Bucky nearly drops his phone.

“Hello?” He answers, doing his best to sound casual.

“Hey, Buck. How are you?” Steve sounds just as strained. His voice does something to Bucky though, makes his heart rate spike. He really hopes Steve means what he said about no more expectations, a new start.

“I’m doing good, actually. How about you?” Bucky asks, closing his books and shifting on the ground.

“Good, thanks!” 

“What, uh...What have you been up to?” What he means is ‘why are you calling?’, ‘what’s wrong?’, ‘what do you want from me?’. But you can’t just say things like that.

“Not much. Not much at all. I’m going crazy being holed up like this.” Steve sheepishly admits.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Bucky says standing up and tucking his study supplies under his arm as best he can while still holding the phone to his ear.

“How is it where you are?” 

“Pretty good.” That’s it. That’s all he can think to say.

“That’s good..” Steve says. “What have you been doing?” And Bucky is about to say, ‘nothing’. It’s on the tip of his tongue when he switches out his words.

“I’ve been hangin’ out with Shuri. She’s awesome.” He says, beginning his walk back home. Steve laughs.

“Good!” He sounds like he means it. “I’m glad to hear that, Buck. Honestly, the thought of you moping around alone wasn’t sitting well with me.”

“What the hell, I don’t mope!”

“Are you kidding me? Then what do you call what you do?”

“Walk. I walk around, Steve.” Bucky says, grinning. Steve adopts a teasing tone so effortlessly around him and he finds himself slipping into it every time. They’re hardly friends, do ‘hardly friends’ joke this easy? Do they poke fun at each other this way? 

“Okay, Buck. Well, the thought of you walking around Wakanda alone while looking sad wasn’t sitting well with me.” Steve corrects. Bucky walks through the field near his humble house.

“Yeah, me either.”   
“I mean, that’s all I’m doing.” Steve confesses.

“What, no more museum trips?”

“Nah, people are starting to recognize me. I think I’ll have to relocate soon.”

“Oh,” Bucky mumbles. “That’s a shame, you like it there, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do. But hey, life moves on.” Steve sighs into the receiver. Bucky approaches his house, crunching on the dirt. Yeah, life moves on, he thinks.

“Where do you think you’ll go next?”

“I have no clue. Somewhere more affordable than fuckin’ Paris, maybe.” He says and Bucky chuckles.

“Yeah..” Bucky sighs while opening his door and kicking his sandals off. “Listen, I got to go. But it was nice to hear from you.” He pushes the last sentence out and it feels like cement bricks are scraping his teeth as they exit. Steve doesn’t say anything for a second and Bucky bets he’s trying to figure out if he’s lying or not.

“Likewise.” He says suddenly. “I’ll let you go, tell Shuri I say hi.”

“Will do.”

“Alright, I’ll see you.

“See you.”

“Bye, Buck.”

“Bye, Steve.”

Bucky waits for Steve to hang up first.

His pulse thrums like he just ran a mile, eyebrows scrunched, he unpacks what just happened. Steve called him. To say hello. He dialed Bucky’s number out of all the ones in his phone and didn’t hang up while it rang. So, judging by that, Bucky safely concludes that Steve does indeed want to be friends despite all that happened.

After Coney Island, Bucky was sure that he was too much. Too much of a ghost, too much a shell of a man and not enough of who he was needed to be. Emotions were left scattered on the floor of Room 6 like blocks letters that used to spell something but now lay discarded and overturned. Bucky doesn’t think it’s fair that his open wounds couldn’t even leave bloodstains on the carpet, that his damage is rendered unphysical. The night on Coney Island is remembered by Bucky a torrid crime scene but maybe Steve Rogers doesn’t mind a little caution tape.

The library book and notebook are slipping out from his armpit as Bucky lowers the phone, still watching the screen with parted lips. New Bucky could get used to having friends.

☆

It takes three days for Bucky to start feeling lonely again. Hanging around in Shuri’s lab isn’t enough so he pours himself into his studies. Shuri answers his questions about Xhosa with patience and ease and never once laughs at his pronunciation. And it helps, it really does. Learning a new language brings along a new way for Bucky to connect with people which he knows he desperately needs. But it still isn’t enough.

That’s why when he goes home, he stands by his little window, phone in hand and chewing his lip. The screen looks back up at him awaiting command. Animals bleat outside, frogs croak, and a breeze waves in through the open window. Peaceful, but empty. Bucky taps the dial button.

And it rings. And rings. And rings. And rings.

“Hey!” Steve picks up.

“Hi, Steve.”

“Give me a quick sec, would you?” Steve says, voice sounding far away from the mouthpiece. There’s some thunking and then a clicking noise. “Alright, sorry about that. What’s up?”

“If now’s not a good time, don’t worry about it, it’s nothing important.” Bucky starts to feel odd about calling. He doesn’t even know what time it is in Paris right now. Steve is preoccupied, clearly.

“Oh, no! It’s fine, it’s just that Natasha’s here and well..” Steve grapples for an excuse as to why he audibly and obviously barricaded himself in the bathroom of his apartment. “Well, you know how she is.” He finishes weakly.

“Yeah, I get it.” Bucky doesn’t really get it. “Wait, does Natasha live with you?” He finds himself asking all of a sudden, words slipping out without permission.

“No, she just showed up at my doorstep a few days ago and hasn’t left.”

“Careful, she’ll hear you.”

“Good, maybe then she’ll get the memo.” Steve laughs. “How have you been?” And Bucky can tell he’s got that face on, all smiley and eyes gleaming. Like he’s really delighted in this moment.

“I’ve been good, just trying to keep busy.” Bucky nods, looking out the window.

“Yeah, me too. Nat’s been making sure I leave the house everyday. Sends me on errands and shit.” Says Steve.

“That’s probably for the best.” He mumbles, thinking mostly of himself and Shuri. How she forces him to talk to her assistants. How she makes him go pick up supplies for her.

“Oh, it definitely is but I’d never admit that to her.”

“And I don’t encourage that you do. Nat doesn’t need an even bigger incentive to meddle around everyone’s business.”   
“God, I know! I just wish she were wrong sometimes; she’d be so much easier to get rid of.” Steve giggles, fucking giggles, his voice lowering in volume to almost a whisper. Something about the situation is very funny to Bucky.

As clear as his memories, he sees a crisp picture of Natasha Romanov lounging on Steve’s couch, booted feet kicked up on the coffee table, probably reading a book, while Captain America huddles in his bathroom whispering like a kid about to be caught with gossip. It makes him laugh. Hard. Steve starts laughing too. It’s not that funny, but Bucky’s high on companionship and it takes him a while to come down.

“You can’t get rid of her, you’re stuck.” Bucky points out.

“And yet she still won’t admit that we’re friends.” 

☆

They continue on like that for three weeks, calling just to say hello every couple days and complaining about having to be actual people. And this time, it’s Steve’s turn to ask, ‘wanna go to Coney Island?’. When the words reach Bucky’s ears, he nearly trips over his feet as he’s walking. Why would Steve want to go back? 

“Yes.” He says anyway.

It’s only slightly warmer this trip at 30 degrees and the sun has already set hours ago when they step onto the boardwalk. A Prussian sky sits far away, starless. They walk closer together this time and Bucky grounds himself against his instinct to pull away from Steve’s side. The same minivan they drove the first time serves them again, the same self-driving plane, the same coats are wrapped around their bodies, but late February circles them in the opposite direction than January did. 

January was counter clockwise. Backwards ticking and warbling radio static. February is phone calls and ink stained hands, a re-learning of how to be familiar and trudging past the edges of comfort zones demanding the perimeter match his speed and fall in line. 

“So, you said something about relocating a few weeks ago. Any more thoughts on where you’ll go?” Bucky asks once they have a pace set. The shops are open and alight but no one’s around. 

“Yeah, I’ve talked to Sam. He’s living in Turkey and said he’s got an extra bedroom, I think I’ll take him up on the offer.” Says Steve and Bucky whistles. A handful of snow flurries drift down in front of them, floating around casually like they have all the time in the word to reach the ground.

“Man, Paris to Istanbul. You’re living the dream.”

“Yeah, walking around with my face covered all day doing nothing to help people who need it, it’s really a dream.” Steve sighs, shaking his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Steve. Sorry.”

“I know, I know. I’m just getting real tired of this sitting and waiting crap.” Steve barks, throwing his legs over the railing on the boardwalk and landing a few feet below in the sand. “I feel useless.”

Bucky too jumps over the wooden railing and lands with a thud in the cold sand. Steve starts walking on the beach, following the boardwalk and Bucky half jogs to reach him, flinging sand in his wake. Bucky wracks his brain for something to say, anything. The only thing that comes to mind is an apology for being partially responsible for tearing apart the Avengers. But Bucky did all of his apologizing; he will not give stale guilt a voice any more. The look on his face must give him away because he feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Steve staring down at him.

“I swear to God, if you say ‘sorry’.” He says with a sad smile. Bucky shakes his head in confirmation.

“I won’t.” Bucky’s almost in pain as he speaks through the shame. “I feel useless, too, you know.”

“Why? You’re only job is to heal right now, Bucky.”

“I could say the same to you. We’ve both been through some heavy stuff, Steve. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself to take a breather?” Bucky stops walking and turns to face Steve. “You don’t need to be who you used to be, right? You told me that.” Bucky’s eyes are cold and they freeze Steve in place.

Standing with his back to the boardwalk, the lights from the shops cast a halo around Bucky and Steve looks at him in astonishment. The snow is coming down a little harder now in fatter flakes that melt as soon as they touch anything. Steve sighs.

“It’s different.” He huffs.

“No, it’s not. It’s not any different.” Bucky snaps, beginning to lose patience.

“Bucky, it is different. I have responsibilities and there are serious consequences happening right now because I’m not doing my job.” Steve looks icy in the snowfall, moonlight backing his blonde hair and casting a metallic aura that broadcasts his frustration.

“You think I don’t know what that feels like?” Bucky asks quietly, quirking an eyebrow. “I have the same skills you do, but a lot more to make up for. I didn’t just let people down who could have used my help, I didn’t just let people die, I killed them. And I’m trying to deal with it. You have to do the same. It’s all we can do, right?” Bucky says, daring Steve to defy him. Daring Steve to go back on his own words.

Bucky watches as Steve’s steely eyes slowly melt in tandem with the snowflakes that fall on his shoulders. Steve’s eyes flit from Bucky’s left to his right, searching for something in his face but Bucky doesn’t know what. They stand there so long that Bucky feels his boots start to sink into the damp, heavy sand and his jeans weigh him down. It’s entirely indecipherable, the way Steve is looking at him. Angry, relieved, calm, tense, confused, it all seems probable to Bucky.

“Right, Steve?” He prompts. Steve’s eyes glass over completely as he gives the faintest nod. He looks so sad and Bucky doesn’t know what to do. “I’m just tellin’ you what you told me.” He adds softly.

Steve is still in a daze as he takes a purposeful step towards Bucky. “I know. You’re right.” He mumbles in defeat. Steve closes the gap between them before Bucky can figure out how to react and sooner than he expects, Steve’s fingers are tangled in the hair at his nape and he’s being tugged forward.

Impulse kicks into drive and Bucky steps backwards. He peels his boot from the frosted sand and places a hand on Steve’s shoulder to keep him in place. Bucky’s not prepared for Steve to touch him without warning and alarms are going off in his brain, telling him to do way too many things at once. Get away, move closer, push Steve, grab him and keep him there, ask him what the hell he is trying to do, punch him, take a deep breath, Bucky squeezes his eyes shut so tight it hurts and his breathing turns rapid.

Thoughts are happening too fast to even dwell on.

“Steve,” Bucky stammers, voice cracking. “What are you doing?”

“Dunno.” Steve replies and with his eyes closed, it was easy for Bucky to pretend that Steve is further away from him, that his space is still his own but when Steve’s voice comes out, warm breath spilling against Bucky’s chin, his eyes fly open no longer able to ignore the panic coursing through his veins.

Steve’s hand is still tight in his hair, unmoving and his eyes are trained on Bucky’s mouth, completely out of focus. Granite realization shoots through Bucky’s spine, down his legs, down his arm and all the way through the fingertips placed on Steve’s shoulder.

Bucky never knew Steve was like that. He has no memories of Steve ever telling him, of Steve ever even hinting that he was gay, a queer, a fairy. And Bucky certainly has no memory of him and Steve. Being like that. They were never like that, were they? 

They’re shivering, from cold or nerves neither can tell. There are only two options, to pull away from warmth and terrifying uncertainty, or to cast themselves and each other back into the cold where they’ll wander together but separate. Bucky’s aware that even if he were to back away now, the almost will still hang between them of what could have happened. Bucky’s so sick of being lonely, he doesn’t think he can take another minute of it.

And Bucky wants to kiss Steve. It feels like he’s falling and he grips Steve tighter. He’s never had the thought before, the want, the need to kiss Steve Rogers. It’s a New Bucky thought. He remembers hanging onto a moving train as the frost whipped at him, he remembers calling out to Steve as his last hope, the only hope he’s ever known. Bucky can’t remember those exact feelings but whatever he is feeling now must be close. 

“Steve.” Bucky says, drawn out and almost pleading. He needs something, his blood is on fire and skin frozen, or maybe the other way around. Steve leans into him, inhaling and Bucky shudders when their noses brush against one another, lips a millimeter apart. Bucky is breathing hard, panting almost, blood pumping so loud he can’t hear the ocean tumbling anymore. He can’t hear the games or rides on the pier, can’t hear the wind whipping at his back, can’t hear the gunfire that plays on loop in his head, can’t hear the whirring of his metal arm that haunts constantly, can’t hear the screaming of his victims, can’t hear his own cries as he was strapped to the chair and recycled again and again.

Bucky inches his hand from Steve’s shoulder to his neck where he lets his cold fingers wander, thumb pressing gently on Steve’s adams apple. Steve’s eyelashes flutter against Bucky’s cheek and he sighs lightly, hand twisting tighter in Bucky’s hair. 

The noise that Bucky makes when Steve crashes their lips together is so weak, so desperate that he’s almost embarrassed. He gasps into the kiss, eyes flickering closed. Bucky surrenders entirely to instinct and pulls Steve closer, noting how strange it feels to kiss someone with a beard. He thinks maybe it should be weird, he’s never kissed a man before, he’s never been attracted to a man before. But he doesn’t have much time to think because Steve wraps his other arm around Bucky’s waist to fit against the small of his back. Even through the layers, Bucky sinks into the warmth.

Steve’s lips move slowly, testing Bucky with languid and cautious movements. It’s wet and warm and full of life and so different than everything Bucky has come to know. Tilting his head, Bucky allows himself to deepen the kiss, gasping against Steve as they part their lips. Something must have shifted in Steve because he’s suddenly a lot quicker in his movements, more deliberate as he licks at Bucky’s lip. Bucky allows Steve to do whatever he wants, his brain seemed to have shut off and left him to drown.

Bucky’s hand cups Steve’s face gently as he responds to Steve’s eager advances. There’s something more than desperation in the kiss. Something only two lifetimes worth of war can make you want, it’s a cry, a prayer for intimate connection that only the two of them can possibly know. 

A moan escapes Bucky’s mouth when Steve bites down on his bottom lip at the same time his fingers give a slow tug on his hair. Suddenly it’s too much again and Bucky snaps back to reality with a jolt that stings. He instantly pulls away from Steve with a slight shove and wide eyes. His hand shoots back from Steve’s body like it’s burning him and he places it over his heart, rubbing his chest and begging his heart to stop beating so fucking fast.

“Sorry.” Bucky says, voice destroyed. “I’m sorry, Steve, I can’t. What are we doing?” He hates the way he sounds so scared, he hates how small he feels opposite Steve who blinks back into the moment.

Taking a few steps back in the sand, Steve hold his hands up.

“Shit, I’m sorry Bucky. That was out of line, I’m really, really sorry.”


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows that as long as he lives he will never get over the feeling of kissing Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever cry because you write so slowly and can't get anything done and are very bad with words and think that maybe you should just go live in the woods and forage for sustenance for the remainder of your days? sorry this update is so short, i'm trying to write as fast as i can but uni and work are keeping me busy :(
> 
> sorry for grammar/spelling mistakes and i hope you enjoy!

Digesting Steve’s words takes a couple seconds and Bucky’s seeing red. Why is it so hard to grip onto things, why is everything covered in grease and burning hot?

“Yes, that was out of line! Very out of line, what were you thinking? Jesus Christ, Steve you can’t just do things like that.” He yells. “Not to me.”

Steve still has his hands up in abdication. “I know. I wasn’t thinking straight, I wasn’t thinking at all, actually. It was selfish. Bucky, please.”

“Please what?!” Bucky shouts and Steve is glad that no one is around to hear them. In the dark snowfall like this, it’s equally terrifying and comforting to know that they are alone between boardwalk and tide. “I don’t understand what you want from me! I thought we were going to shoot for being friends, that’s what we said. That’s what I want. And I told you before that I’ve got a lot of figure out, my plate is full. And you said, you SAID, no more expectations. Did you mean that? Because what was that? I’m so fuckin’ done trying to figure this out, Steve, you gotta be honest with me, what do you want from me?”

Steve lowers his arms and sighs. He looks like he’s thinking hard and Bucky knows firsthand that gathering your thoughts is a hell of a job, but god damn it, he deserves an explanation. He deserves one right now.

“I don’t know.”

“Not good enough.”

“Okay, fine. You said you want to be friends, let’s be friends, then.” Steve sputters.

“No, Steve, what do you want?” Bucky is about to drop to his knees and beg Steve to answer the simple question.

“I don’t know! I don’t know what I want, I’m just as confused as you are. I want to be friends, I want you in my life and I want to be part of your life. That’s all I know right now.” Slowly making his way toward Bucky, Steve stands close enough so that they don’t have to yell to hear each other, but no closer.

“But why’d you kiss me?” He croaks it out, throat burning and head throbbing. Steve laughs dryly and throws his hands up in defeat.

“I don’t know, Bucky. Why’d you kiss me back?” 

And the question hits Bucky hits in the chest like a bullet grazing his heart; he didn’t even think about why he reciprocated until Steve asks. Bucky stammers, anger bubbling at himself as well as Steve.

“Because, you-! It. It happened fast and. Because in the moment, I wanted to.” The words are foreign coming out of his mouth and Bucky thinks it’s like hearing them from a distance. It sinks in, the thought that he wanted to kiss Steve, that he wanted to kiss his hardly-friend, a man, and makes him feel partially numb.  
“I’m not gay, Steve.” He feels the need to clarify. “And neither are you, I mean what about Peggy? Sharon?”

“What about them?”

Bucky exhales in frustration and plops down in the cold, rough sand not caring if it soaks into his clothes. “Didn’t you fancy them?” Bucky watches his feet.

“Course.” Shrugs Steve, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You can like both, Bucky.”

“Yeah, I know. I just didn’t think you did.” The edge to Bucky’s voice slips further away with each word and they come out sounding heavy and sad. “Were you always?”

“Always bisexual? Yeah.” Steve then folds his legs criss cross and sits down a few feet away from Bucky. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t remember you being that way, is all.”

Steve stays quiet as he busies himself by watching the snow fall. This atmosphere he has created is sopping with wet with disturbance, his heart is sore already. Their newly established dynamic has shifted cosmically. And Bucky stays quiet, too. He looks like he’s thinking hard so Steve lets him take his time. After a couple silent minutes, he opens his mouth.

“Can we be friends after this, Steve?” Steve hates himself for making Bucky look so sad; this relationship is everything to Steve but he didn’t realize that maybe it meant equally as much to Bucky. 

“Remember when you tried to kill me a couple times? If we made it through that, then yeah, I think we can get over a stupid kiss.” Steve says and Bucky’s lips twitch with a ghost of a smile but his eyes never leave their fixed stare at his feet.

“Good. I don’t wanna fuck this up more than I already have.” Bucky grumbles. He looks frozen like that. Sitting in the sand, hair matting his cheeks, eyes distant and flint grey-blue. Dusk like. Bucky’s an ice sculpture that’s been thawed out and refrozen, unsure how to resume proper shape. He looks just the way Steve feels.

“You haven’t fucked anything up.” Steve insists.

“Yeah, I did. I’m kind of a mess right now. You can’t just spring something like this on me.” Bucky’s face scrunches and his eyes look so far away; Steve doesn’t know how to reel him in.

“I know, and I said I’m sorry. Hey, I’m fine with pretending the last five minutes didn’t happen, Bucky. Really.” Steve proposes curling in on himself tighter as a particularly cold wind whips at them. His words seem to do the trick in shaking Bucky from his spell and his head snaps to where Steve sits.

“Well, I’m not!” Bucky blurts. “I don’t think I could forget about all of this if I tried!”

“And by ‘all of this’, you mean..?”

“You! Liking guys, kissing me, me kissing you back! It’s just..” Bucky rubs his soon-to-be frostbitten fingers over his face. “It’s too much, Steve.”

“Bucky, can I be honest?” Steve’s tone is soft and it causes Bucky to drop his hands and lock eyes with Steve and he reluctantly nods. “I think you’re making this a much bigger deal than it is. People kiss all the time, sometimes at the wrong time, sometimes with the wrong person. So, we made a mistake. Like I said, it was completely out of line on my part and so now we move past it and focus on being better friends.”

Bucky’s expression stays in place, his fingers playing with the hem of his jeans while he thinks what to say.

“I know kissin’ somebody doesn’t have to be a big deal, but friends don’t kiss each other. Not two guys, not like that.” Bucky says meticulously. He’s choosing his words so carefully that Steve can see the focus in his mouth, the way his lips move around the hand crafted syllables. “You really don’t think about the way your actions might affect other people, do you?” Steve crumples under the weight of Bucky’s words.  
“You just go after the things you want without even thinking about it. Maybe that’s respectable, I don’t know. But not in this context. I don’t like talking about my feelings, and I’m not good at it but I need you to know that what you just did was not okay. You can’t..” Bucky struggles even saying the words. “..kiss me. You can’t kiss me because it makes me feel like there are more expectations, yeah, expectations.” The vigilant filter of his words is gone now and Bucky spills out sentences freely, eyes full of hurt and anger, and cheeks red.

“Because I don’t even know what I want from myself and my life, and here you come expecting me to be your friend. Which I don’t know how to do, but I’m willing to learn. So I do that. Or I try to at least. And you’re also learning how to be my friend. And we have a history that doesn’t mean much to me but seems like it means the world to you, and I can’t expect you to forget about that, so you can’t expect me to forget about this. What might not matter to you matters a whole lot to me, okay?”

Bucky is aware how disjointed his sentences are, how they swim in circles and don’t come up to breathe. But he prays that Steve understands. Way down, where the sand turns to mud, the ocean crawls up towards them and then retreats over and over and over. Two steps forwards, two steps back. It’s eerily familiar in pattern.

Steve stands and wipes his hands on his pants before offering one to Bucky and helping him to his feet.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it from your point of view.” Steve says, dropping Bucky’s hand as soon as he’s standing. Bucky shrugs because what else is there to do?

☆

Lime green ‘Vacancy’ flits and buzzes in large cursive letters, batting down on the entrance to a familiar motel. The sign itself seems to give off an odor of melting plastic that parades the parking lot, trapping anyone who enters into a prism of neon lights and electric chemicals. Voltaic asphalt is covered in a watery film of slush and Bucky is itching to leave the car. Steve puts it in park.

Bucky waits as Steve gets their room keys outside the main office in a bit of a trance. He watches the diner across the road, the one he saw Steve walk to alone that night a month ago and wonders if their food is any good. Saliva pools in Bucky’s mouth and he realizes that they haven’t eaten all day.

The door to the main office opens behind him and Steve’s soon at his side, nudging him to take his room key. Steve follows Bucky’s line of sight when he doesn’t look at him.

“Wanna grab a bite?” Bucky asks.

☆

They’re seated in the corner booth along the window, plates of pancakes blocking the table from view as Steve liberally pours syrup over the dish closest to him. Communication is stiff but existent, and that’s more than Bucky’s hoping for. He was not about to spend another night alone in his motel room isolating himself. Pancakes and light conversation are certainly a step up from that.

“So, have you heard from Natasha recently?” He says. Steve shakes his head, mouth full of pancakes.

“Sort of, we text sometimes but I think that’s just her way of making sure I’m still alive. Haven’t seen her since she left my place a couple weeks ago. God knows what she gets up to in between visits, it seems like everytime I see her she's recouping from some injury.” Steve talks through chewing, gesturing with a fork and Bucky blinks in surprise.

“Whoa, what kind of top secret stuff do you think she’s doing?”

“Honestly, I have no idea and I’m a little pissed she doesn’t invite me to get in on the action.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re out of commission due to war crimes and of debatable mental stability. I would know, same boat and all.” Bucky says, starting on a second pancake. Steve throws a straw wrapper at him.

“I’m in perfect shape, physically and mentally, thank you very much. And I would like to be included!” He grins.

“You ever think that taking a break is doing you good?”

“I think so, yes. But what I think and what I feel are two separate things. I’m antsy all the time, I miss fighting. The missions, my uniform, God, my shield. Not to mention all the people I could be helping.” Steve says and shifts his legs under the table, a knee knocking one of Bucky’s who moves out of the way instantly.

“I miss that stuff, too. And I know I’m not supposed to, but once you’ve gotten used to that, it’s hard to go back to being a civilian.” Bucky speaks quietly, guilt overtaking his features. “I mean, I don’t miss being the Soldier but I miss the adrenaline and feeling capable I guess.”

“Yeah, that’s what it is. Capability’s gone now.” Steve mumbles, taking a drink. “Would you ever go back? To combat?” Bucky has to think about it.

“I would for the right reasons. I think it’d be selfish of me not to.” And that is his real answer, but it’s the shortened version. When Steve nods at his reply, eyes soft yet again, Bucky feels like he means it. Here in the garish lighting of the shitty diner, Steve still soaked from the snow and nodding looks to Bucky an angel.

Greased back and half frozen hair falling over his forehead, cerulean eyes shining like they’re cut with more facets than every gemstone in the world and warmth spilling out from his body to attend to the remaining cold that surrounds Bucky, God. He’s thinking about Steve’s lips on his now. He knows that as long as he lives he will never get over the feeling of kissing Steve, of being touched so voluntarily. Of feeling so wanted by Steve. 

Stabbing at his food to dissipate those thoughts, Bucky focuses on working through the mountain of pancakes in front of him.

☆

Room 7 is an exact double of Room 6 right down to the unanchored spirits that haunt the musty hues and preserve all staleness. Bucky settles in by dumping his bag against peeling wallpaper. There’s a rustling coming from next door as Steve gets comfortable in his own room and Bucky sits on the bed. He thinks about how many words he has spoken out loud today. And if he regrets any of them, which he doesn’t, but the question still hangs around nagging him to give in and admit discomfort. Bucky holds strong.

Because communication has become a drug to Bucky in the past month. Something that at first seemed formidable, dishonorable, and very distant became addictive and pleasurable. Talking with Steve helped numb the pain that ties his ribs together and makes it hard to breathe. But he knows it’s still his own solitary responsibility to reach in and untangle them for himself no matter how bloody his fingers might get.

The clock reads four minutes after midnight. As soon as Bucky registers the time, his body seems to weigh twice as much as normal. The exhaustrion drips down from temple to toes, liquid lead that pulls him onto the itchy bedspread and Bucky mindlessly kicks off his shoes before retracting his feet. It takes every ounce of self control not to think about it. About kissing Steve. Bucky pushes it away with the little remaining strength he has. But the satisfaction keeps crawling back, limping back for more and eventually Bucky allows it to overtake him.

With no one to hide from and nothing to prove, his thoughts wash over him undisturbed like cold February waves.

He sinks under the ocean of warmth that puddles in his chest when he recalls Steve’s breath on his skin. He thinks about the feeling of being wanted, loved even, if he really wants to indulge in the fantasy. Bucky allows the content sigh leaving his lips when he remembers Steve’s hand in his hair and turns to roll on his side, burying his flaming cheeks into the pillow as he closes his eyes and replays the little noises Steve had made.

Bucky falls asleep with the light still on, thinking about his friend who he doesn’t regret kissing.


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sits there across from him and patiently rubs his knuckles as Bucky gets control of his breathing. Callous fingertips sooth him, ground him here. And he’s not even embarrassed. If anyone in the world could understand what Bucky’s going through, it’s Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really thought i could end with part 5 but it turns out i have soft bitch disease and am gonna write every fucking detail of these two stupid boys falling in love.
> 
> as always, i apologize for spelling/grammar mistakes and hope you enjoy!

Two days later, one day after Bucky returns home, Steve calls him to say hello. Bucky wants to point out, ‘but we just saw each other less than twenty-four hours ago,’ but instead he says,

“Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.” And it comes out stunted.

“Well, you don’t have to sound so excited, jeez. Guess I’ll hang up, then. Call in a couple of days maybe.” Steve says sarcastically, lightly, with a hint of awkwardness, a little defensive. Bucky rushes to fix it.

“Don’t hang up, you can call me whenever you want.” But that sounds startlingly bold and intimate, there’s no joke to his tone and Bucky becomes aware that his self-arranged, permanent availability for Steve has now been given concrete vocality. It catches him off guard. Maybe it catches Steve off guard too because he’s quiet for a few seconds.

“Yeah, same goes for you,” is Steve’s reply.

Then they talk. About nothing and anything. There’s nothing pressing to bring up since they just saw each other but it’s just nice. Steve talks about art, Bucky talks about reading and neither of them apologize for rambling even though they do.

☆

March

The first day of March is spent inside the library. Bucky returns the books that he’s read, renews his Xhosa textbook, and then turns to wanders the shelves in search of his next literary adventure. Somehow, Bucky finds himself on the second floor in the biography section, unshelving books and turning them over to mouth the names of artists he’s never heard of.

On the second, he joins Shuri in her lab. He walks around, hand in his pocket while she whistles along with the music playing and works. Conversation comes easier now to Bucky as he greets the assistants and asks them about their weekends. He doesn’t speak to them in the little Xhosa he knows, though, he’s not ready for that.   
“How was your trip?” Shuri asks once he winds his way around to her workstation.

“Good.” He answers and then recoils. “A little weird.”

“Oh?” Her infliction asks for more information but he doesn’t give it. Some things are better kept to oneself. 

“Yeah, nothing real bad or anything I wanna talk about. Just some heavy topics, you know?” He knows Shuri won’t pry.

“Broken white boy problems, am I right?” Shuri says and nudges him with her elbow as he laughs.

“That’s exactly right.”

☆

Bucky is in his kitchen trying to follow a recipe when his phone dings from where it’s plugged in. After he stirs the concoction sitting stovetop, he goes to check it to find a picture message from Steve. The image is of a large window showcasing the view of a city skyline. Boxes are piled in the corner of the frame and the caption reads,

Steve: Move in day! PS Sam says hi :)  
6:09pm

Bucky grins, unlocking his phone.

Bucky: Wow, what a great view!  
6:10pm

The next picture comes through before Bucky can put down the phone. It’s a blurry capture of Sam giving the finger to the camera, smiling big.

Bucky: That one’s not such a great view.  
6:10pm  
Right after the text is delivered, his phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. Or at least, Bucky thinks it’s an incoming call. He’s still not great with phones. He slides to answer it and to his surprise, Sam Wilson’s face pops up on his screen, at first slightly pixelated before coming in crisp. Oh, a video call. He’s heard about these.

“Bucky fucking Barnes!” Sam cries, gap tooth smile and eyes sparkling. “The man, the myth, the legend, how you doing?”

Bucky’s never used a video call before and he tries his best to aim the camera at himself.

“I’m doing well, Sam. It’s good to see you.” He says, only capturing the top half of his face on screen.

“Yeah, it’s good to see you, too. What’s a man like you doing tonight?” 

Bucky extends his arm, trying to angle the view downward as he talks.

“I’m making dinner right now. And I plan on eating it when it’s done cooking. Those are my plans. What about you guys?” He says and gives up on moving the phone. Sam is just going to have to be okay half of his body being in frame.

“Well, once your boy gets unpacked, we’re having a night on the town, baby!” Sam announces and Bucky hears Steve’s protests in the background. “Yes, we are. We’re hitting the clubs and gonna see once and for all just how many drinks it takes to get Captain America shitfaced.”

The sound of Steve laughing in the background makes Bucky smile so he focuses on that instead of the fact that Sam referred to him as ‘his boy’.

“Oh, sounds very fun. You two be careful now, we don’t want any scandalous headlines in the paper tomorrow.” Bucky warns and Sam chuckles at the idea.

“Yeah, I can see it now: ‘Turkish jail destroyed from the inside out after Captain America is arrested for setting fire to an underground dog fighting ring.’ Or maybe, ‘Captain America found dead in nightclub after stage diving during karaoke and landing directly on head.’”

Steve butts into the frame with a finger raised and face way too close to the camera.

“Alright, that’s enough and yes, Sergeant Barnes. We will be very careful, thank you.” Steve says and smiles softly. Sam pulls him a little further away from the camera.

“Whoa, man. Back up a little.” Sam says as they arrange themselves side by side in the frame.

“Can he see me?”

“Yeah, Steve, he can see you.” 

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky wishes he had another hand to wave with.

“Hi, Bucky! Isn’t this neat?” Steve exclaims and Sam violently rolls his eyes but they’re full of fondness.

“Yeah, I didn’t even know my phone could do this,” shrugs Bucky.

“Sam says it’s called Facebook.”

“FaceTime.”

“FaceTime, that’s it.” Steve nods as Sam hands over the phone to him and leaves the frame. 

“Alright Steve, I’ll let you go. Sounds like you guys have enough to do.” Bucky says, looking over at his soup on the stove making sure it’s not boiling over.

“Yeah, sure! We’ll talk soon, Buck.” Steve waves and Bucky watches his eyes flit around the phone screen in search of how to hang up. It strikes Bucky as adorable. There’s no other word for it. His heart swells, threatening to push up his throat in sweetest way. For a split second, Bucky swears he smells sugar and his stomach flutters. He holds his breath. Eventually, the screen goes blank and Bucky dumps his phone back on the counter sporting a faint blush.

☆

Bucky was a handsome teenager. He does remember that much. He remembers that he could get any girl he laid his eyes on to dance with him and have her a giggling mess as he twirled her around. These little images play soundless in his movie-theater brain. And while he can’t recall the exact feeling of putting his hands gently on her waist to give her a kiss on the cheek to say goodnight, he does remember how nervous he would always get. Palms sweating, stuttering over his words, heart beating rapidly, not wanting to say goodbye. He remembers very vividly that pretty girls drove him crazy.

He doesn’t remember ever feeling that way because of a man. 

Maybe it’s a New Bucky thing, he thinks. Or maybe his brain is confused after considering everything Steve sacrificed for him. Another likely possibility is that this is just his brains way of dealing with Steve kissing him. A natural reaction to a encountering a problem is to fix it, and maybe his mind jumped to the easiest and quickest solution available which was to project some kind of attraction onto Steve.

It’s not the 1940’s anymore, men liking men in accepted. Normal. Healthy. It’s hard for Bucky to internalize idea in the first place and even more difficult when he’s not sure whether or not his feelings towards Steve are even real. 

Because Bucky’s palms don’t sweat in the same way when they FaceTime. He doesn’t get giggly or put on a cool facade, there’s no need to impress. But the butterflies do sometimes nest in his belly, shifting slightly when Steve looks at him a certain way through the lense. It’s not enough for concern, though.

Not until the next time they meet face to face.

☆

March has a funny way about it, Bucky thinks as they saunter onto the boardwalk. The humidity pushes down heavy on their skin, making it hard to stand upright. Their spines are green jello from that diner and they slither down splintered planks towards the pier like two fish hooked on the same line being reeled in lazy-like by a drunkard. 

A grey sky unfolded early in the day and remains creased and crumpled above them, but it won’t rain. It’s the kind of sky that you can just tell. Besides, the clouds can’t possibly be holding any water, it’s all down here making up the 52 degree fog. That’s what Bucky thinks, anyway. It must be a popular train of thought because there are a lot more people populating the boardwalk than the last time they were here. Families, couples, solitary wanderers out for a walk. 

Steve walks so close to Bucky that their shoulders brush whenever Steve swings his arm. Even when Bucky purposefully puts an inch or two of distance between them, Steve creeps close again within a few steps. He doesn’t know if it’s the friction rubbing from their sweatshirts or if Steve is really that warm; his body throwing off heat constantly, adding to the already sticky air.

They walk that way all the way to the end of the pier, until they’re standing against the railing side by side sighing at the ocean. Once they’re there, conversation ends. Bucky watches the waves in awe, never tiring of the ceaseless pounding on the sand, one of the few constants in life. Beside him, Steve does the same. There are no need for words, the silence is welcome and refreshing even, after all the talking they’ve done the past week.

And despite the inner turmoil cycling through Bucky, he’s at ease. He’s able to forget about whatever feelings might be budding and let the static air infiltrate his body and electrify each cell until he’s buzzing with contentment.

Bucky feels brave today. He lets his eyes slide over to Steve on his right and eyes him over, slowly. He’s got time. No real thoughts congeal as he does so, just an incredible warmth that starts deep in his stomach and infects the neighboring areas. 

Steve’s really good. Even as Bucky has gotten to know him, has sees his flaws first hand, he still thinks that Steve in really, really good. 

“What’s going on, why are you staring?” Steve’s words slap him back to reality where he realizes that he was just caught red handed and Bucky fumbles for words.

“You’re beard is sticking up a little,” is the best he can come up with on the spot. Steve smooths his facial hair out with his fingers and cocks an eyebrow at Bucky.

“Did I get it?” He says and Bucky stares at Steve’s mouth. Again, he’s not thinking, he’s just looking.

“Yeah.” Bucky replies automatically.

☆

“I’ll just take a coffee, thanks.” Bucky orders and sits back against the cracking red leather booth. They left the boardwalk early, letting the sun set while they hide out inside their diner this time. 

“Actually, we’ll have two slices of cherry pie with whipped cream. We’re celebrating.” He tells the uncaring waiter as he hands back the menus. After he walks away, Bucky tilts his head.

“What are we celebrating?” 

“Tomorrow.” Steve says, like it’s obvious.

“What about tomorrow?” He asks and Steve stops fiddling with the napkin dispenser to look at him.

“...Your birthday?” Seconds tick by and Bucky fills his cheeks with air and exhales, eyes blinking slowly at Steve.

“Holy shit.” He remarks and Steve wheezes. “I have one of those?” Bucky doesn’t even care how stupid the question is, he’s never once (since he’s been New Bucky) even considered the fact that he might have a birthday. Besides, he wants to see Steve laugh.

“Only you would forget about your own birthday. Yes, Bucky, March tenth is your special day.”

“Honestly, it didn’t even fucking dawn on me…” He says, tapping his fingers on the table where his arm is draped and laughing at himself. It’s sad in a way. Until pretty recently Bucky hasn’t acknowledged himself as a human being. But birthdays. Birthdays are so human, so indulgent of life, a literal celebration of simply being a human and nothing more.

Oh my god, Bucky is human. His heart implodes in slow motion, a tragic collapse that pumps real blood through real arteries. It feels like a thick, wet rope is knotted to his inside throat and pulling; Bucky bows his head in pure worship of his feelings and lets tears gather in congregation, completely at the mercy of visceral emotion. 

He’s never cried so quickly in his life. The ecstacy of obtaining something he very readily believed to be lost forever causes his face to crumble and redden. He doesn’t care that he’s a grown man crying in a diner over his stupid birthday, he just doesn’t fucking care.

Fingers intertwine with his own atop the table. Bucky clenches around Steve’s hand, holding him there, telling him thank you, thank you, thank you. 

“You okay?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” Bucky hiccups. “Need a minute.”

Steve sits there across from him and patiently rubs his knuckles as Bucky gets control of his breathing. Callous fingertips sooth him, ground him here. And he’s not even embarrassed. If anyone in the world could understand what Bucky’s going through, it’s Steve.

When their pie is delivered to the table, Steve stops Bucky before he can dig in.

“Wait a minute, we have to sing happy birthday!”

“Don’t you fucking dare, I swear to god I’ll cry again.” Bucky warns and Steve laughs, clutching his middle and throwing his head back.

☆

They have already wasted three dollars trying to get the stupid Reese's pack out of the lobby vending machine. One has already given up and is clutched in Steve’s hand but Bucky wants one, too. He contemplates breaking the glass and just taking all of them. But luck is not on the side and they wander back to their rooms unsuccessful a few minutes later. 

“Hey, come to my room. Let’s watch a movie.” Bucky suggests. Sometimes it surprises him, how comfortable he’s become with Steve. 

“You really think this shithole is gonna have a decent selection of on demand?” Steve chuckles.

“I don’t know what that is, I was just gonna find one on TV.”

“Yeah, ok. Sounds good.”

As expected, the selection isn’t great. Bucky doesn’t care, he just wants to spend time with Steve. They flick through channels until coming upon one that Steve recognizes and makes Bucky stop to put it on. It’s called ‘Saw’ and it doesn’t sound familiar at all to Bucky, but it doesn’t really matter because Steve fills him in enough that he can follow along.

“Steve, this is gruesome. Why do you like this, what’s wrong with you?” Bucky asks once their a good deal into the movie. Steve sits at the foot of them bed, legs dangling over and he turns to look at Bucky who lounges against the headboard.

“Because it’s genius. Once you watch the other movies, you’ll see.” He’s shaking his head at Bucky, almost in pity. Bucky laughs.

“Other movies? Everyone is dying, how can there be a second?” Bucky waves his hand around.

“I told you, because it’s genius.” Steve rotates so that he can crawl upwards on the bed. “You gotta watch them all.” He says softly, fondly, and somewhat intimately now that he’s closer to Bucky. Nearly touching Bucky, so very next to Bucky that’s he’s almost on top of Bucky. Steve makes himself comfortable, propping up pillows against the headboard as he resettles and turns his full attention back to the movie. 

Bucky wonders if Steve is even aware how flirtatious the whole thing comes off as.

“Maybe you should come to Wakanda a few days early next time and we’ll marathon them.” The suggestion slips out easy and low. No need to be loud, Steve is right there. Right fucking there. And he turns to look at Bucky.

“Be careful what you say, I’ll hold you to that.” Steve hums, a slow smile spreading over his lips. “And no, you can’t take it back so don’t try.”

“I won’t,” Bucky murmurs. The buzzing from the boardwalk is back, making his skin magnetic. Are they even talking about movies anymore? Steve is really right there and Bucky wants, for the briefest of seconds, to grab Steve’s chin and kiss him. To see if it would feel the same as last time. But he lets the thought come and go. People have crazy thoughts all the time, he reminds himself. Doesn’t have to mean anything.

“Okay.” Steve whispers, eyes on Bucky. Then they stay like that, so close to one another just looking for what feels like minutes. Guttural sound effects from the movie play as a backtrack, headlights move from one edge of the window to the other as cars pass by in another world. Here, in Room 4, it’s just them. Bucky knows that it’s weird to sit and stare at your best friend, he feels it in his gut, in the shakiness of his hands, in the air. 

When Steve shifts and returns to watching the movie, Bucky tries to do the same but finds it hard to focus.

☆

After ‘Saw’, they keep clicking on random channels, changing them as they grow bored. They talk through commercial breaks, sinking lower and lower until they’re both laying down on top on that musty, itchy bedspread in a boneless, carefree ease. Bucky’s not tired in the slightest and he wants this night to go on forever.

Halfway through an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos, Steve bolts upright, squinting at the clock.

“Whoa, what?” Bucky asks, voice laced with concern.

“It’s after midnight, it’s your birthday. I’ll be right back!” Steve says, hopping on one leg as he slides a shoe on. He doesn’t even close the motel room door all the way while he sprints to their van and opens the door. Bucky watches propped up on his elbow through the window as Steve jogs back carrying something in his hand.

A 40-something degree breeze sweeps through the doorway as Steve returns in a gust and shuts the door behind him. Bucky sits up, curious.

“I didn’t have time to wrap it, but something tells me you won’t mind.” Holy shit, Steve has a present for him. For his birthday. Bucky didn’t think it was possible become any more tender than he’s been all day, but he does. 

“Steve, you really didn’t need to get me anything, I-” Bucky starts stammering but Steve cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“It’s not much, don’t worry about it. Here, just take it. Please.” Steve says, holding out a book. Bucky takes it and turns in over in hand. 

“Frankenstein.” He reads aloud, grinning. He mentioned it to Steve a couple weeks ago that he had been meaning to read some horror classics but hasn’t gotten around to it yet. “You remembered.” Bucky feels a little dizzy, a happy kind of tipsy.

“Yeah, shockingly I actually listen when you talk.” Steve says, and he’s smiling too. His face is pink and he wrings his hands. “It’s my old copy so sorry it’s not shiny and new or anything, but I enjoyed it a lot and I think you will, too.”

“Thank you, Steve. It’s great.” Bucky says, tearing his eyes away from the bent spine to meet Steve’s eyes. When Bucky reassures him, Steve visibly sighs in relief.   
“Yeah?” He asks and Bucky nods. “Okay. Alright. Um, It’s late, so I’m gonna hit the hay.” Bucky doesn’t trust himself to reply verbally so he just nods again. “Happy birthday. See you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Steve. Thanks again.” Bucky says, holding onto the book like it might disappear. He almost tells Steve to stay so they can continue to pretend to watch TV. 

Even after showering and brushing his teeth, Bucky’s not tired. It might as well be noon, he’s got energy to spare. In the mirror the cadet grey of his eyes looks a little deeper, a little more there, a true presence. He feels that way, too. Like each and every moment up until now he’s been gaining some sentience and becoming solid. A ghost shedding its old flesh and growing into the new.

And Bucky knows that his secrets will outlive them all. Right here, right now, as he grips the side of the sink, recognition of the lurid things he’s done stands across him with the smug look of a proud Nazi. He salutes it with frozen fingers and marches on. The time for guilt is over.

The water from the tap isn’t that cold but Bucky gulps it down, head sideways and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s still wide awake so he picks Frankenstein up off the nightstand and decides that tonight is a good night as any for reading. 

Though the cover is peeling at the edges and the spine creased, Bucky doesn’t expect that the inside be so well loved as the exterior. He flips through the paperback, smoothing out pages to read what’s scribbled there. There are stars on certain pages, comments in the margins, and quotes underlined in pen. Some of it’s in blue ink, some in black. For some reason, that really amuses Bucky.

He flips back to the beginning and begins reading and doesn’t stop until he’s finished. 

☆

Bucky wakes up late the next morning, having fallen asleep somewhere between four and five o’clock. He scrambles out of bed and slings clothes on when he looks at the time and realizes that it’s late morning. Outside the window, Bucky catches sight of Steve throwing his bag in their van and sliding his phone out of his pocket. Unsurprisingly, Bucky’s own phone rings two seconds later.

“Hey, sorry, I overslept. I’ll be right out.” He bubbles out. Bucky doesn’t even give Steve a chance to reply, he’s already grabbing his bag and briskly walking out to the parking lot. He’s a man on a mission.

Steve is leaning against the car, arms folded casually and looking like maybe he too just woke up. Bucky drops his duffle on the pavement and violently yanks open the zipper. Out comes the book and Bucky pages to his first bookmark. Steve moves from his stance, cocking his head at Bucky but he clears his throat before Steve can open his mouth, and he reads aloud.

“‘It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on  
that account we shall be more attached to one another,’ Frankenstein, chapter seventeen.” He rumages to the next page that’s been folded down. “‘If I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or  
any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness,’ that one’s from chapter twenty-two.” Bucky flips to the next. “‘The companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain,’ chapter twenty-four. These are the only three things circled instead of underlined. In red ink, also.” Bucky announces. “Why?”

He thinks he knows the answer but he needs to hear it out loud. And truthfully, the way Bucky’s demanding an answer would be funny to Steve if he weren’t staring at him so intensely. If his jaw wasn’t so slack and the weight of his gaze so severe. 

“I wanted you to notice them,” says Steve. “They’re things I wanted to say you to you but didn’t know how.” It sounds a lot like a confession and big, brave Steve’s voice falters with nerves. But still, he confesses. 

The scene is very dollar store romantic. It’s all second guessed feelings and potential energy; the tiny bit actual glamour eclipsed by the junkiness of a motel parking lot. Leftover humidity makes Steve look greasy but Bucky can pretend the sheen is model-esque; horns honking in the distance are a serenade. Bucky looks down to reread the quotes, slower this time, drinking in every syllable.

“That’s unbelievably sweet,” Bucky blurts when he looks up again. It’s an act beyond kindness, it’s so thoughtful that Bucky can’t think of words to describe how amazed he is. It feels like he’s drinking honey. 

“So, it was a good gift?” Steve asks through a grin and Bucky nods enthusiastically. 

“Yes. It’s perfect, you’re perfect.” Bucky says before wedging a foot in between where Steve is planted and kissing his cheek. Steve’s beard is wiry under his bottom lip, skin soft under his top. Bucky hopes, prays that he hasn’t crossed a line and his stomach tightens at the thought. But when he pulls away and Steve is staring at him open mouthed and pinker than he’s ever seen him, eyes huge and blinking, he thinks that he doesn’t care if he has crossed a line. Seeing Steve like that is worth it.


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Steve, I like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this is it folks, the last chapter! i've had so much writing this story and i hope you've had just as much fun reading it. thanks for the comments and kudos, they're more appreciated than i can articulate!
> 
> once again, i apologize for spelling/grammar mistakes and hope you enjoy!

They’ve been talking for over an hour. It’s been dark for three. Bucky lays with his phone trapped in between his cheek and pillow, curled on his side in bed. 

“Hey,” he drawls when the topic runs out. “You know how you gave me a book for my birthday a couple weeks ago?” 

“Yes, Bucky. I remember.”

“Well, I got you something for your birthday but it’s too far away so I’m going to give it to you sooner.” Bucky plays with the pillowcase as he talks, running it through his fingers as if hypnotized.

Steve laughs, the noise too close to the mouthpiece and it crackles. It breaks the illusion that he’s right there with Bucky. “When are you going to give it to me, then?”

“Give me your address and I’ll mail it over as soon as I can.” But Steve huffs at the suggestion.

“You can’t give me my premature birthday present through the mail system. It’s impersonal. Rude, even.” Steve teases, maybe trying to rile Bucky up but he’s too tired to argue, he’d rather just play along. 

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t think about the implications. If you were to open a package from me and it was a beautifully wrapped gift, one that ends up being your all time favorite gift, along with a personalized handwritten note that I pour my heart and soul into, it might hold some negative connotations.” He grumbles, but the airy tone pushes away any suggestion of real annoyance.

“My thoughts exactly.” Steve breathes. 

“I’m being serious, Steve. Tell me your address, not now, just whenever you get the chance text it to me, okay?”

“No.” 

“Steve, don’t be an ass. I’m trying to do something nice for you.” Bucky whines and tries to find the right words. “What you gave me, what you did for me was really nice. So, let me be nice back.” Bucky’s tired, so his voice is soft but he makes sure it’s still stern enough.

“How about I come get it myself?” Steve hypothesizes. “Need I remind you that you promised me a movie marathon?”

Bucky groans. “Damn, I was hoping you forgot about that.” No, he wasn’t.

“No such luck, my friend. When can I come?” Steve asks. 

“Whenever,” he replies, readjusting his face against the phone screen.

“How about two and a half weeks from now then?” Steve proposes, like he has the date ready. “On the twelfth? And then we can head to Coney for the weekend.”

“I’m good with that.”

“Awesome.” Bucky can hear Steve’s smile and it makes him smile a little, too. Even after they hang up, the smallest grin lingers on Bucky’s lips. He’s aware of it, almost too aware that he can’t seem to stop smiling whenever Steve smiles just like he’s aware that he still thinks about the time they kissed on the beach over a month ago. 

There’s also the more recent event where he had let himself kiss Steve’s cheek, and that is a whole other beast. In all honesty, he hadn’t meant it in a romantic sense. It was truly the only way he could think to say ‘thank you’ in the moment. And regret occasionally rears its head whenever he thinks about this because as much as he loved seeing Steve blush like a schoolgirl, it made him afraid.

It’s the same type of fear he remembers acknowledging when he left to join the army and had to say goodbye to Steve. So familiar in it’s own way yet distant enough to keep him from tying the yarn together so he could have a whole string. 

But the memory of the first kiss is starting to fade. It follows the same pattern that every other memory of Bucky’s seems to fall into. The hues of velvet sky and shadowed seafoam of the brine drain of color right in front of him like a fistfull of sand slipping between metal fingers. All heat that had warmed him so fiercely as Steve’s scent drugged his brain is neutralizing and all he can do it watch it go. Bucky thinks that maybe this is for the best. 

Bucky brings up this monochrome memory problem to his therapist on the first visit.

He was nervous going in, twitching and tapping as he sat and waited to be called in. Ditching the appointment and going home had been a present option that Bucky tossed around but he managed to find a foothold and stay in place. 

The therapist makes Bucky call her by her first name and offers him tea when she guides him inside her tiny but cozy office. She doesn’t seem the therapist type. Eliza is perfectly nice, perfectly welcoming but Bucky doesn’t receive any sort of comfort from her presence. Her glasses sit on the tip of her nose, crows feet deep lining her eyes and her hair probably once voluptuous and stunning now is graying and thin.

“James, it’s so nice to meet you.” She says, crossing her legs and placing her clipboard on her knee. 

“Good to meet you as well. Thank you for meeting with me.” Bucky says, unable to get comfortable in the armchair across from her.

“It’s what I do, darling. Now, this is priced by the hour so let’s not waste time, tell me why you’re here.” Eliza has authority and she controls it with a smile and a slight european accent. Bucky sighs and almost laughs at the bluntness. He’s never been to therapy before, he doesn’t know what to expect but being put on the spot so quickly certainly wasn’t it.

“Um, I’m sorry but I’m not entirely sure. I can never really make sense of my thoughts, my head’s a bit of a mess. I’m not as happy as I think I should be.” Bucky looks at the carpet and plays with his hands as he talks.

“Not as happy as you think you should be? Depression?” Eliza asks, pen at the ready and Bucky has to take a minute. The same force that held him in the waiting area, the same force that gets him walking to Shuri’s lab every other day, the same force that opens his books and demands he pour his attention somewhere other than sadness, the same force that commanded Bucky to pick up the phone and call Steve that one night back in January takes hold and makes him speak.

“Yes.” He says firmly.

“Are you suicidal?”

“No.”

“That’s good,” smiles Eliza for the first time and her brown eyes melt a little. “And do you know the cause of the depression?” She asks and when Bucky struggles to answer she says, “it’s alright if you don’t.”

“No, I think I do. I don’t know how much you know about me..” Bucky leaves his statement unfinished and more of a question. Everyone in Wakanda knows his story. Eliza doesn’t move from her professional position.

“I’ve read your file, I’ve seen the news, I’ve heard the rumors. I’d like to hear it from you, though.” 

Bucky talks for what feels like hours. His mouth moves, his brain shuts off. He recalls events in no particular order with no particular emotion and Eliza’s pen never lifts from the clipboard. Bucky talks about what he remembers from before the war, he talks about the war itself, he talks about Old Steve and New Steve, God does he talk about Steve, he talks about Coney Island, he talks about an emptiness inside him that he keeps trying to fill until his throat closes up and he has to shut up. Eliza hasn’t said anything the whole time. He apologizes for how messy everything sounds and Eliza waves her hand in dismissal.

“I don’t like that word, don’t use it in here.” She says, finally looking up from her notes.

“Sorry, which word?”

“That one, don’t say ‘sorry’ to me.” Eliza looks in his eyes when she speaks and the pressure in the air shifts. “It’s important.” 

Bucky nods. “Okay.”

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me, James-”

“Bucky, call me Bucky.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Bucky. I understand how difficult this must be for you and I think it’s very telling of your character that you are here seeking help. I would like to discuss some expectations for the both of us, it’s crucial that we have a clear understanding of the goals of our sessions.  
“The first thing you need to know is that I am no miracle worker. I cannot make your problems disappear with a magic wand and even if I could, I wouldn’t. Not even for you.” She smiles again. “And this is not a classroom. You cannot fail, there are no wrong answers, and I am not your teacher who will look over your shoulder making sure you do your homework. I will treat you like an equal, giving you privacy and respect, however I will expect you to put in the work. I will help you acquire tools and skills that might help you navigate your problems but Bucky, please understand that it is you who will make the decision to utilize them.  
“Does this sound like something you still want to pursue?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Bucky nods, wiping a sweaty palm on his jeans.

☆

April

The smell of tomato infects the entirety of Bucky’s house, floating out of the windows and sticking to the walls. Water boils on the stove and Steve pours a box of pasta into it per Bucky’s instruction. In between the sounds of two chefs shuffling around the kitchen, staticy music plays from Bucky’s phone. Cooking always seems to unwind Bucky, and he really needs it after today. Therapy had taken a lot out of him. And then he didn’t have much time to decompress because Steve arrived within minutes of returning home with his typical double knock on the door.

“You know, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you knew how to work a stove.” Steve says as Bucky stirs the sauce beside him and sighs.

“You come to a man’s house and you insult his goats-”

“The brown one is so fat, though. He was not that fat last time I was here.”

“You insult his music-”

“That wasn’t sarcastic, I actually like what you’re playing!”

“You insult his culinary skills.” Bucky’s got three fingers sticking up as a list. “Have you no respect?” His voice gets louder and he pretends to be angry at Steve. “Go back home to Sam with your perfect view of the city and his perfect cooking and your perfectly normal shaped animals, see if I care.”

Steve doesn’t back away as Bucky stalks towards him, trying to be intimidating. Laughing, he swats Bucky’s hand away when he tries to flick his forehead.

“Nice try, I’m not leaving. You’re not getting out of the ‘Saw’ marathon that easy. No way.”

Bucky is smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It was worth a shot.” He mumbles, backing away from Steve. The sound of food cooking and gas spewing from the stove is enough to drown out the music and Bucky walks over to his phone to turn up the volume a few notches. Shuri had helped him make a playlist of twenty six songs which he’s had on repeat since its inception a week ago. 

When he turns back around, Steve’s jaw is open and his eyes squinting slightly at him. 

“Is this..Is this Puttin’ on the Ritz? Fred Astaire?” He asks and Bucky nods. “Holy cow, I haven’t heard this since they were playing it on the radio!” Bucky had had the same reaction when he first listened to the song. The lyrics come back like they never left and instead sat inside his head and chugged along the inside of his skull like a train until they were needed again.

Bucky wheezes when Steve tries to sing along but doesn’t remember half the words and ends up making noises in place of actual syllables. Steve doesn’t care, he’s wrapped up in buttery nostalgia.

“C’mon.” Steve says holding out a hand. “Dance with me.” Bucky shakes his head.  
“No way, you’ll step on my toes and break ‘em!” Bucky points out and Steve makes a ‘pssh’ sound, moving to the beat and inching over to Bucky.

“I’ve got super agility now, no toes will be harmed,” promises Steve.

“I’m not gonna dance with you.”

“Yes, you are. C’mon.”

“Steve.”

“Bucky.”

The two stare at each other for several seconds, Steve still bouncing to the beat, hand outstretched and Bucky shaking his head. Bucky’s breaks the standstill by turning back to the stove as an excuse to check on the food but doesn’t rotate very far at all because Steve grabs his bicep and yanks. Steve’s a strong guy; Bucky goes flying into his chest and stumbles before regaining his balance but with the death grip on his arm, he’s not able to put any distance between himself and Steve.

“Steve, stop foolin’ around.” In another time, another place, for other people, this moment could be nice. Bucky’s not really in the mood. He doesn’t fight, though as Steve starts swaying, snaking a warm arm around his waist as he hums. Bucky knows Steve doesn’t mean anything by it, Steve’s just like that. Touchy, happy, friendly. 

“I’m not foolin’.” Steve breathes, his chest so close to Bucky’s. Bucky sinks into the song, he wants to give Steve everything he asks for. He lets his hand come up to hang around Steve’s shoulder and moves with the tempo. Even though Bucky doesn’t feel like dancing doesn’t mean he won’t try to enjoy it. 

Steve is humming in his ear, horribly flat. He sings the few words he does know a beat too late and breaks his promise by stepping on Bucky’s toe a couple times. He’s so unnaturally warm and Bucky can’t help from pushing closer, letting more of his body weight go and sighing subconsciously when Steve takes it as a cue to grab Bucky’s hand and hold it out, turning whatever they were doing into a proper dance. 

Bucky’s not smiling, his eyes are closed. He doesn’t want to see Steve so close to him looking as happy as he sounds. He doesn’t think he can take it. Not after today. He lets Steve lead them like that for about half a minute.

“Steve.” Bucky says softly through a sigh. Steve doesn’t hear him or maybe ignores him. “Steve, will you stop for a sec?” Bucky peeles away from him, trying not to let the tightness of his voice squeak through. But of course, Steve notices these kinds of things.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, just had a rough day. Don’t feel like dancin’ much.” He explains as casually as he can. Steve nods.

“Oh, wanna talk about it?”

“Naw. I think I just need some scary movies to take my mind off it.” Bucky smiles lightly and it doesn’t seem to convince Steve. His eyes are still warm as he eyes over Bucky, looking for some kind of answer that he’s unwilling to give. And he’s still so close to Bucky and makes uneasy. Like he’s somehow more vulnerable that way.

Bucky tries to hide himself by locking his eyes somewhere over Steve’s shoulder. On the wall of his kitchen. He’s wide open for dissection right now, still raw and swollen from the afternoon’s probing, so tender he’s afraid he might rip if looked at a certain way. Bucky gulps like the conversation is some sort of fucking interrogation and he reminds himself that it’s just Steve here. It’s just Steve. It doesn’t work as well as it normally does.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Steve asks, voice heavy with concern now.

“Yeah, Steve. Please just leave it, I’m fine.” Bucky all but begs and Steve’s eyes clear. He nods.

“Okay. Distraction it is.”

☆

The credits are rolling of the second movie for the evening and while Steve originally pushed that they stay up all night binging, his eyes are closed and breathing slow and even. Halfway through the movie, he had dropped over to lay on the couch, feet stretched across Bucky’s lap. The casual touch had sent Bucky reeling.

He doesn’t know why some touches are different than others. Why some of them make his heart pound and make him feel so seen, so there. Bucky’s already flimsy interest in the movie came to a complete stop once Steve nonchalantly slid his legs overtop of his, curling his toes every so often. The plain weight of another human being is reassuring. 

And when the movie ends, Bucky carefully reaches for the remote on the coffee table and switches off the television. He knows he should get up. Grab a blanket for Steve. Leave him on the ouch and head on in to bed. But it’s so easy to stay where he is, all settled and relaxed. Close to another human being. Touching another human being and sharing some bit of warmth, occupying the same space for a little while. So he stays. 

Steve is half on his side, half on his back, fixed in an odd state of rotation while his chest rises and falls evenly. The resistance Bucky is met with when he tells himself not to stare at Steve is almost nonexistent. It’s instinct at this point to just let his eyes float over to wherever Steve is. 

Eliza had asked him today, pen in hand as she looked over her notes, ‘And Steve, who is he to you?’. Bucky told her, ‘he’s my friend, my best friend.’ That just sent Bucky loose. He didn’t go into the session with an intention to talk about anything in particular, just to get things sorted in his head. But Bucky talks for an hour and a half, reliving the moments they’ve spent together, hardly taking a breath to pause. But he does pause when recalling a night on the beach in February, a snowy, horribly cold night, when warm lips enveloped his everything and maybe drove him a little over the edge.

He doesn’t say anything about kissing Steve but his face burns from how hard he’s blushing and maybe it’s the color of his cheeks or maybe it’s the way he talks about Steve in general because Eliza asks, ‘Do you have romantic feelings for him?’ Bucky says, ‘I think so, but I’m not sure,’ and hides his face in his hand. She tells him it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

And now, as he sits in a dimly lit, tiny living room with Steve lounging here in his home, on his body, he has a more concrete answer to the question. The revelation that he is attracted to Steve doesn’t send his heart into a flurry or make him feel like he might be seasick, it just makes him feel full. Whole. Like this is where things fit.

Bucky falls asleep with his head tipped back over the couch, palm resting on Steve’s shin, thumb that was tracing the soft material of Steve’s sweatpants eventually stilling.

☆

“Can I have it yet?” Steve whines as Bucky motions for him to follow. 

“I told you, I’ll give it to you when we’re on the beach.”

Seagulls cry out above, dense wood thunks beneath their shoes and the sun beats down for what feels like the first time in all eternity. April sunshine is unrivaled; the golden rays have this glory and freshness that goes unappreciated as spring moves forward and twists into summer. But each year the April warmth is reclaimed and reinstated as something sacred against the skin, reintroduced as an old friend that winter ripped from your grasp.

“We are on the beach!” Steve says.

“No, this is the boardwalk. Let’s go.” Bucky jerks his head towards the calm ocean and hoists himself over the boardwalk railing to thud in the sand below. Steve follows suit. It’s the warmest day of the year so far and the beach is speckled with a few stragglers playing hooky on the 70 degree day. Bucky sighs, salty air coating his throat.

He makes footprints in the sand as he walks and a second pair follows close behind. Once Bucky deems right here a good enough place, he slides his backpack off his shoulder along with his jacket to sit on. He’ll admit, it’s a little chilly with just a t-shirt but god dammit, the sun is exhilierant on his bare skin. Bucky can feel Steve watching him and he rolls his eyes.

“Alright fine, I’ll get your damn gift.” He says and Steve responds by sitting in the sand next to him, instead of sitting on his jacket he just balls in up and throws it down next to him. Steve’s face is turned upward to the sun, eyes closed taking in the heat, unable to fight the urge. A thin black tube comes out of Bucky’s bag and he turns it over in hand for a few seconds.

He wasn’t nervous about it until now. He’s glad the wind blows his hair over his face, masking whatever expression he might be making from Steve. They’re good friends now and you don’t get nervous with your good friends, even when the gift you’re about to give them feels like a proposal. Even when Bucky feels like he’s down on one knee, completely at Steve’s mercy. Receptive to rejection and all the heartbreak that comes with it. Good friends. Steve’s such a good friend. Bucky wordlessly hands over the canister and doesn’t even watch as Steve opens it and slides out the print.

He hears the peel of it being unraveled and the classic wobble noise as Steve holds it up for examination. Bucky’s cheeks are flaming and he feels like maybe this was a stupid idea. Steve doesn’t even has his own house to hang paintings in.

“Edward Potthast.” Steve whispers and it’s almost lost in the breeze. “Oh my god, Buck.” The syllables scatter on the sand and become just another couple of grains. Bucky watches the shoreline. “He’s one of my favorites. Is this here, is this Coney?” Steve asks and his voice is so light that Bucky can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Yeah, at least that’s what the paintings called. Coney Island.” Bucky says as he turns to Steve. He’s completely enraptured in the print, eyes traveling from one detail to the next. “That’s why I wanted to wait until we were here.”

“That’s really something.” Steve murmurs. “Impressionist and everything, you really know how to treat a guy.” 

Steve’s leaning into Bucky as he rolls back up the print and carefully sliding into its container. Warm cheek pressed against Bucky’s stump, only a thin layer of cotton separating their skin. “Thank you.”

Instead of saying ‘you’re welcome’, Bucky finds it easier to suggest they unpack the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Because if his heart gets any tighter it might never unravel. But Steve stays against his side for a few minutes; he’s been extra liberal with his touches the past few days and Bucky loves it. It forces him to acknowledge how touch starved he is, how desperate he is for affection and that just makes him all the more grateful for the casual contact Steve so readily gives.

☆  
Room 6 again. It looks and feels the same as Room 4 and 7. Tastes like frostbite and Reese’s, smells like soap and Steve, gives like the water under the pier. A pulsating dull green. Though Bucky knows things have changed since January because there’s a new stain on the carpet right by the leg of the bed. 

Bucky watches TV for a little while. He puts it on mute, the noises annoy him right now and instead he listens to the cars that drive by outside his window. Even though it had only been a few days that Steve stayed with him, he had gotten used to the constant company. The space around him once crackling with sarcasm and playful touches now feels empty. The way a theatre is an hour after a show. He texts Steve.

Bucky: You still awake?  
12:12 am

He flips his phone around in his hand while he waits. If Steve doesn’t answer within five minutes, he’ll go to bed. If he does, well, Bucky never got that far.

Steve: Yeah, what’s up?  
12:13 am

Bucky: Come here  
12:13 am

Bucky: If you want  
12:13 am

Bucky: Door’s open  
12:15 am

He hopes that’s not too cryptic or clingy. A few seconds later the handle to Room 6 turns and Steve enters, hair sticking up in the back like he was just laying on a pillow and Bucky instantly feels guilty.

“Do you need me to sing you a lullaby?” Steve asks. He sounds and looks so serious Bucky almost reassures him that no, he does not need that but Steve’s gleaming eyes give him away.  
“Yeah, and some sleepy time tea.” Bucky nods just as serious while he beckons Steve to the bed. “Got so used to having your punk ass around it’s too quiet now.” He says fighting a blush as Steve cocks his head and walks towards the bed.

“Maybe that’s cause you got the TV on mute.” Steve smirks.

“Naw, I want real people company.” Bucky reasons but his voice gets weaker with each word. Why does it feel like an excuse? A half-truth maybe. Steve’s looking at him funny and he raises an eyebrow. Bucky feels like in this moment Steve knows something he doesn’t and it makes him queasy. He inches down on the bed so he’s flat on his back and can avoid Steve’s suspicious gaze by turning his eyes to the cement ceiling. 

Bucky feels the bed dip as Steve drops onto it beside him. From his peripherals he can tell that Steve has adopted the same position as him. Back flat, hands on chest, ankles half a foot apart, eyes trained on the cracks above. The replication has no business feeling as intimate as it does. There’s still a good amount of space in between them but the added weight on the bed does wonders to ease Bucky’s loneliness. 

And Bucky’s aware that Steve wouldn’t do this for anyone else. With anyone else. That knowledge grips the words from his brain and tosses them out his mouth.

“Steve, I like you.”

What is he doing? What is he DOING? Bucky doesn’t rush to take it back or undo it, he can’t. He doesn’t even really want to. Now that it’s out of his brain and into the world, his lungs feel like they’ve tripled in size and he’s gulping down air like a drowned man. Steve’s breathing hitches, Bucky hears it as he counts spots on the ceiling.

“I know, Buck.” He says it easy, simple. 

“You know?” Bucky asks, turning his head to question Steve. At his movement, Steve mirrors him and the proximity of their faces is jarring. “Steve, I mean in a romantic sort of way.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, I know!”

Bucky’s head is spinning. “What do you mean? I only just found out a couple of days ago!” He sounds so distraught, so confused that it makes Steve burst out in a new fit of laughter. It’s contagious and Bucky can’t help but let out a few breathy chuckles. 

“We grew up together, Buck. I know what it looks like when you have a crush.” Steve explains, wiping his eye with a knuckle. 

“This is so embarrassing,” mumbles Bucky as he shakes his head and covers his face with his hand. “Here I am, puttin’ myself out there and all you say is ‘I know’?” Truth be told, he’s not that embarrassed. He’s glad Steve’s laughing because now he’s laughing, too and the tension has momentarily lifted.

“I like you, too. There, is that better?” It makes Bucky smile.

“Yes.” Bucky says but his grin starts to fade. Because here comes those expectations again. Looming down like spiders on silk from the ceiling that were hiding in the cracks. “But…”

“But?” Steve asks, eyes so still, so locked onto Bucky he thinks he’s paralyzed.

“But, I’m not after anything. I don’t even know why I told you that. I’m not ready for a relationship, I’m still getting used to the fact that I like a guy. I’m sorry, it was selfish of me to even bring this up.” Bucky streams out. Steve’s face doesn’t change.

“It’s not selfish. And I know all of that, too. I’m not askin’ for anything from you, Bucky.” Steve discloses. 

“Maybe not now but you will.” As soon as he says it, Steve’s eyebrows furrow and his nostrils flare. He sits up so he can get a better look at Bucky.

“Do you actually think that?” He growls and Bucky feels like a cornered animal. He wants the mattress to swallow him whole but the motel bed is stiff and uncaring. “Bucky, you’re everything to me. Always have been. God, I’ve been head over heels for you since I was fifteen! Being friends with you is the greatest part of my life, it’s more than enough for me, Bucky. I’m happy.” 

Nothing could have prepared Bucky for those words. Each sentence like a separate punch to the gut, layering navy bruises on top of one another, like waves on the sand. A consistent, warm pain that erodes his bones. Sincerity bleeds from Steve’s lips in the shape of a wound Bucky’s only ever seen on Steve; selflessness. Steve Rogers in his purest form. Bucky sits up, too.

“Don’t lie.” He whispers, heart so full of hope he can hear it being rushed through indigo veins. “And whoever you were in love with back then isn’t who I am now. That’s Old Bucky. I’m New Bucky.

“I’m not lying. There’s no such thing, you’re just Bucky to me.” Steve breathes back. Bucky believes him. Images from the silent television broadcast like a projector on the sides of their faces, flickering along with Bucky’s pulse. He watches Steve for some slow seconds, searching until his head hurts for some sort of betrayal in Steve’s eyes. There’s none. Just a softness that feels like home. 

“So, if I were to kiss you right now, that would be okay?” Bucky asks. Steve nods. “But I might not want to kiss you tomorrow. Is that okay, too?” Steve nods again. “Are you sure?”

“I’m with you, Bucky. Can’t get rid of me.” Steve is speaking so softly, Bucky’s never heard him use this tone before. 

Bucky can feel his own eyes go glassy. He folds his legs under him criss cross and tucks his hair behind his ears. Steve remains propped up on his elbow sideways, t-shirt wrinkled and messy hair looking so good Bucky doesn’t know how he didn’t realize his feelings sooner. 

“Okay,” He says. More to himself than Steve.

Bucky watches colors from the TV dance on their skin, a shadow puppet show for all the ghosts in the room. These images coagulate like geometry. All angles and points like broken beer bottles on the beach. They recede and crash like the tide in swirling pigments of navy, turquoise, seafoam, and sage. Watercolors soaking through newspaper.  
Bucky bends, hand coming up to cradle Steve’s cheek and he connects their lips. Lightly, so featherlight. Steve breathes warm air as they meet and Bucky’s eyes close. Time is more real than it’s ever been. 

Bucky moves slowly and hesitantly, pulling back an inch after only a couple seconds. Steve’s eyes remain shut, his body perfectly still. Moving his hand around to the back of his head, he pulls Steve back towards him, pouring more energy into his movements now and Steve is forced to move his hands for support. The temporary shift has them disconnecting before both of Steve’s hands come to rest on the side of Bucky’s face and Steve is diving back in, closer as a whole to Bucky now, eyes so far gone.

His heart is hammering just like their first kiss but this time it doesn’t feel like too much, too much, too much all at once. It feels like a promise of companionship and understanding. Proof that he can love and be loved even just for a moment and Bucky leans forward completely into the kiss, into Steve.

Letting his hand travel down and run over Steve’s chest, Bucky feels for his heart and finds it fluttering under the rough pads of his finger tips. It sends jolts of excitement through him, to know that Steve might be feeling the same way he is right now. Bucky parts Steve’s lips with his tongue, experimentally. And Steve follows his lead.

Bucky tastes faint toothpaste, sweetmint drawing him in and forcing his jaw open. His tongue is greedy and anxious and Steve moves his thumbs over Bucky’s cheekbones to slow him down. He doesn’t want to, though. Everything's so warm and solid and real. So unlike the memories that sail around somewhere in his head. They part to breathe.

“Slow down, I’m not going anywhere.” Steve mumbles before pecking the dimple in Bucky’s chin. Bucky chases after his lips. Steve’s a lighthouse guiding him home through a storm, waves booming from all directions like explosions on a battlefield. Their lips are wet and slippery, a drenched ship deck, melted snow. He kisses Steve with the desperation that’s been gnawing away at his insides. 

Their tongues meet and dance, too eager to stay in one place for too long and Steve licks at Bucky’s bottom lip so gently it makes his eyes water. The absolute devotion of such a simple and tender action weakens Bucky’s knees.

Steve makes a tormented sound as Bucky pushes on his chest, forcing him on his back as he climbs on top of him. Underneath him Steve looks up at him in delirium, strong hands tracing Bucky’s waist. A lifetime of want echoing in the blues of his eyes and pink of his cheeks. Bucky’s muscular thighs on either side of Steve, he places his hand down next to Steve’s head and crashes their mouths together again. The sensation of Steve’s palms tightening on his sides, fills him with a sense of pride.

Teeth clash clumsily, neither of them have kissed like this in a long time. The heat that they’re both throwing off is enough to turn the spring night into summer. Steve cards a hand through Bucky’s hair as he slows his movements. Steve’s lips are carnally addictive but Bucky gradually and lethargically eases off, taking the hint. They have time.

Bucky pulls away and straightens his spine. He uses his middle finger to trace over Steve’s sharp features while he admires.

“The beard is a really good look.” He says, blinking sluggishly. Steve smiles, hands coming to rest on Bucky’s hips. They sit like that for a few minutes before peeling away from one other. Wordlessly, Steve reaches up to turn out the light and shut off the television while Bucky worms his way under the duvet. 

Steve finds Bucky’s hand under the cover and hold it tightly, weaving their fingers together. 

“You’re not going to wake up and apologize for this, right?” Steve asks, sounding small.

“No.”

“And you know I’m not going to wake up and apologize for it, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Steve says, closing his eyes. He falls asleep within minutes, hand still interlocked with Bucky’s. It takes Bucky much longer to drift off. His brain is still foggy, bones melted and the fire in his lungs still smoking as the embers turn to black. 

The green ‘Vacancy’ sign still blinks outside a streaky window to reflect on the pavement and no hidden stars shine in the night sky. An otherwise bleak scene to the unfamiliar eye but a setting so promising to Bucky. He counts cars that pass by the window until his eyes finally give out.

Still he dreams in greens and blues. Of sand in his shoes and seawater soaking his pant legs so they wrap around his ankles. Of fading boardwalks and seagull songs. He dreams of chasing his friend around the beach, grabbing him by the fraying collar and wringing his salted, icy socks out down Steve’s back until he howls and shoves him away. Bucky dreams these things because he doesn’t remember. And it does not matter in the least.


End file.
